?RbOS\ 

, F x 
% 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 
in  2016 


https://archive.org/details/collectedworksofOOpear 


COLLECTED  WORKS  OF 
PADRAIC  H.  PEARSE 


/<?>  y-7 


COLLECTED  WORKS  OF 
PADRAIC  H.  PEARSE 


PLATS 

STORIES 

POEMS 


BOSTON  COLLEGE  LIBRAE'S 
CHESTNUT  KILL,  MASS, 


NEW  YORK 

FREDERICK  A.  STOKES  COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS 


Copyright  1917.  Margaret  Pears® 


Printed  by  George  Roberts,  Dublin 


CONTENTS 


INTRODUCTION 
THE  SINGER  ^ 

PLAYS  ' , 

IX 

- 

A 1 

THE  KING 

S 

45 

THE  MASTER  " 

69 

IOSAGAN 

* 

IOI 

STORIES 

1 

THE  MOTHER 

125 

> THE  DEARG-DAOL 

137 

THE  ROADS 

*47 

BRIGID  OF  THE 

SONGS 

169 

THE  THIEF 

179 

THE  KEENING  WOMAN 

193 

IOSAGAN 

'22  7 

‘ THE  PRIEST 

245 

BARBARA 

259 

v EOINEEN  OF  THE 

BIRDS 

POEMS 

287 

LULLABY  OF  A 

WOMAN  OF  THE 

MOUNTAIN 

31 1 

V 


CONTENTS 


A WOMAN  OF  THE  MOUNTAIN 

KEENS  HER  SON  p . 3 I 2 

O LITTLE  BIRD  3 I 4 

WHY  DO  YE  TORTURE  ME  3 I 5 

LITTLE  LAD  OF  THE  TRICKS  3 1 6 

0 LOVELY  HEAD  3 I 8 

LONG  TO  ME  THY  COMING  3 1 9 

A RANN  I MADE  3 20 

TO  A BELOVED  CHILD  32  I 

1 HAVE  NOT  GARNERED  GOLD  322 

I AM  IRELAND  323 

RENUNCIATION  324 

THE  RANN  OF  THE  LITTLE  PLAYMATE  326 
A SONG  FOR  MARY  MAGDALENE  327 

Christ’s  coming  328 

ON  THE  STRAND  OF  HOWTH  329 

THE  DORD  FEINNE  332 

THE  MOTHER  333 

THE  FOOL  334 

THE  REBEL  337 

CHRISTMAS,  I915  340 

THE  WAYFARER  34  1 


APPENDIX 


vi 


PUBLISHER’S  NOTE 


This  volume  of  the  Collected  Works  of  Padraic 
Pearse  contains  his  English  Versions  of  Plays  and 
Poems,  many  of  which  have  not  been  previously 
published.  The  Author’s  final  copies  of  the 
manuscripts  of  The  Singer  and  The  Master 
were  burnt  in  the  Publisher’s  office  at  Easter, 
1916,  but,  fortunately,  other  copies  of  these 
manuscripts,  apparently  containing  the  Author’s 
corrections,  were  forthcoming.  On  page  35  of  The 
Singer,  there  was  one  page  of  manuscript  missing 
which  evidently  contained  dialogue  covering  the 
exit  of  MacDara  and  the  entrance  of  Diarmaid, 
and  it  seemed  better  to  leave  a blank  here  than 
to  have  the  missing  speeches  written  by  another 
hand.  Towards  the  end  of  this  play  there  were 
some  pages  of  manuscript  giving  a slightly 
different  version,  and  it  was  difficult  to  say 
whether  this  version  was  an  earlier  or  later  one 
than  the  manuscript  which  has  been  followed. 
This  fragment  has  been  printed  as  an  Appendix. 

The  Translations  of  the  Stories  from  the  Irish 
were  made  by  Mr.  Joseph  Campbell. 

In  the  Author’s  Manuscript,  the  play  The 
Singer  was  dedicated  “To  My  Mother.” 

The  Publisher  wishes  to  thank  An  Clodhanna 
Teoranta  for  the  permission  accorded  to  Mrs. 
Pearse  to  publish  translations  of  Iosagan , An 
Sagarty  Bairbre , Eogainin  na  nEan . 

vii 


- 


INTRODUCTION 


It  must  be  evident  to  all  who  read  this 
collection  of  plays,  stories  and  poems  in  the 
spirit  which  their  author  would  have  wished 
for,  that  it  would  be  utterly  wrong  to  preface 
them  with  remarks  applying  merely  to  their 
literary  qualities. 

For  they  are  something  more  than  litera- 
ture. On  the  pages  as  we  read  they  seem 
to  grow  into  flesh  and  blood  and  spirit. 
They  are  a record  of  the  emotions  of  a life 
which  was  devoured  by  one  idea,  the  native 
beauty  of  Ireland,  its  manners,  its  speech, 
its  people,  its  history.  And  we  see  how 
that  idea  was  coupled  in  the  mind  with  a 
poignant  sense  of  the  danger  that  threatened 
the  vitality  of  all  those  things.  The  writer 
saw  the  thought  of  the  Gall  spreading  like 
a destructive  growth  through  the  body  of 
Irish  nationality.  He  felt  that  an  imported 
politeness  mocked  at  the  Gaelic  ways  ; he 
knew  that  the  Irish  language  had  been  ex- 
tinguished in  the  greater  part  of  Ireland  by 
the  sense  of  shame  working  on  poverty, 

ix 


INTRODUCTION 


and  that  many  of  the  people  of  the  Irish- 
speaking fringe  were  also  growing  ashamed 
of  the  priceless  treasure  they  possessed  ; he 
saw  that  the  lessons  of  Irish  history,  which 
the  leaders  of  the  past  had  taught  by  their 
labours  and  often  sealed  with  their  blood, 
were  being  ignored  in  the  modern  political 
game. 

Earnestness  of  purpose  had  always  marked 
him.  He  threw  his  heart  and  soul  and 
strength  into  the  Gaelic  movement  ; he 
learned  the  language  so  thoroughly  as  to 
be  able  to  use  it  with  ease  as  his  medium 
of  literary  expression,  to  recapture  the  old 
forms  of  poetry  and  story-telling,  and  to 
infuse  into  them  the  modernity  of  his  own 
modes  of  thought.  He  fought  the  battles 
of  Irish  with  a vigour  that  we  all  remember. 
He  founded  a school — against  what  diffi- 
culties ! — where  education  was  Irish,  and 
aimed  at  the  free  development  of  personality 
in  the  Irish  way.  All  that  was  hard  and 
earnest  work,  but  its  earnestness  was  nothing 
to  the  terrible  seriousness  that  grew  upon 
him  when  he  came  to  realize  the  maladies 
of  the  political  movement  that  was  supposed 
to  aim  at  Irish  nationhood.  The  Volunteers, 


x 


INTRODUCTION 


at  whose  foundation  he  had  assisted,  were  at 
first  negotiated  with  and  then  divided  by  the 
constitutional  Party  ; the  original  founders, 
who  determined  to  adhere  to  their  principles, 
were  left  high  and  dry  without  any  consti- 
tutional support.  The  conviction  gained  on 
him  that  only  blood  couM  vivify  what  tame- 
ness and  corruption  had  weakened,  and  that 
he  and  his  comrades  were  destined  to  go 
down  the  same  dark  road  by  which  so  many 
brave  and  illustrious  Irishmen  had  gone 
before  them. 

It  is  in  the  light  of  this  progress  of 
thought  that  we  must  read  his  writings. 
We  find  the  fresh  notes  of  tenderness  and 
sweetness  in  the  early  stories,  Iosagan,  The 
Priest,  Barbara,  and  Eoineen  of  the  Birds. 
The  psychology  of  children,  their  sorrows 
and  joys,  are  the  theme.  The  older  people 
are  merely  foils  to  the  children  ; we  learn 
nothing  of  their  inner  story,  except  in  the 
case  of  Old  Matthias — and  even  here  we 
have  merely  an  account  of  a return  to  the 
innocence  of  second  childhood.  Iosagan 
coming  to  play  with  the  little  ones  on  the 
green,  while  the  old  folks  are  at  Sunday 
Mass,  Paraic  wearing  a surplice  and  saying 

xi 


INTRODUCTION 


D^minus  Vobiscum , and  Orate  Fratres , in 
anticipation  of  the  priestly  office,  Brideen 
holding  converse  grave  and  gay  with  her 
doll,  Eoineen  watching  with  joy  the  return 
of  the  swallows  in  spring,  and  broken- 
hearted at  their  departure  in  late  autumn,  all 
pass  before  our  eyes  as  dwellers  in  a Tir-na- 
n-og  in  lar-Connacht , where  the  waves  sing 
a careless  song,  and  the  sun  shines  only  on 
innocent  faces.  But  in  The  Mother  and 
other  stories  we  are  on  different  ground, 
and  are  told  of  “ the  heavy  and  the  weary 
weight  ” that  lies  on  the  hearts  of  the 
Western  poor.  We  see  the  tragic  pride  of 
Gaelic  culture  that  impels  old  Brigid  of  the 
Songs  to  walk  across  Ireland  to  sing  at  the 
Oireachta:^  in  Dublin,  only  to  die  of  hunger 
and  exhaustion  at  the  end,  the  listless  face 
of  the  old  tramp,  who  tells  how  through 
the  Dearg-Daol  he  had  lost  his  luck,  his 
farm  and  his  family,  and  had  become  “ a 
walking  man,  and  the  roads  of  Connacht 
before  him,  from  that  day  to  this”;  and 
even  more  significant  is  the  story  of  the 
death  in  prison  of  Coilin,  with  its  under- 
current of  hatred  for  the  foreign  laws.  The 
manner  of  narration  in  these  stories  is  brief 


Xll 


INTRODUCTION 


and  severe  ; there  is  scarcely  a phrase  too 
many,  and  even  purists  would  be  hard  set 
to  detect  an  alien  note.  The  most  perfect 
instance  seems  to  me  to  be  the  story  of  the 
Dearg-Daol. 

Of  the  little  collection  of  poems,  Suan- 
traighe  agus  Goltraidhe  (Songs  of  Sleep  and 
Sorrow),  Mr.  MacDonagh  rightly  said: 
“ One  need  not  ask  if  it  be  worth  while 
having  books  of  such  poetry.  The  pro- 
duction of  this  is  already  a success  for  the 
new  literature.”  The  old  forms,  with  their 
full-sounding  assonances  and  alliterations 
are  beautifully  wrought,  and  the  modern 
thoughts,  the  latter-day  enthusiasms  and 
dejections,  when  they  come,  never  strike  us 
as  intruders.  To  illustrate  their  beauty, 
quotation  in  English  would  not  serve  my 
purpose  ; I will  quote  from  the  Irish 
original  a single  verse  from  the  poem, 
A Chinn  Aluinn  : 

A ghloir  ionmhuin  dob' is eal  aoibhinn , 

An  fior  go  gcualas  trem  shuanaibh  thu  ? 

No  an  fior  an  t-eolas  ata  dorn  b he o-ghoin  ? 

Mo  bhron , sa  tuamba  nil  fuaim  na  guth! 

Quite  suddenly,  in  the  second  last  of  the 

• • • 
xm 


INTRODUCTION 


collection,  the  image  of  Ireland  stands  out* 
bowed  beneath  the  weight  of  the  ages,  the 
mother  of  Cuchulainn  the  valiant,  but  also 
of  shameful  children  who  betrayed  her, 
lonely  and  imperious.  And  the  last  poem 
is  an  exquisite  farewell  to  the  beauty  that 
is  seen  and  heard  and  felt,  before  gathering 
the  pack  and  going  the  stern  way  whither 
the  service  of  Ireland  pointed. 

The  plays,  The  Singer,  The  King* 
The  Master,  and  the  last  poems,  The 
Rebel,  The  Fool,  The  Mother,  are 
those  of  a man  in  whom  meditation  on 
coming  struggle,  agony  and  death  have 
become  one  with  life  and  art.  They  are 
weighted  with  the  concept  of  a nation 
inheriting  an  original  sin  of  slavery,  for 
whose  salvation  the  death  of  one  man  is  a 
necessity.  “ One  man  can  free  a nation 
as  one  Man  redeemed  the  world,”  says 
MacDara  in  The  Singer.  “ I will  take 
no  pike,  I will  go  into  the  battle  with  bare 
hands,  I will  stand  up  before  the  Gall  as 
Christ  hung  naked  before  men  on  the  tree  ! ” 
And  the  mother  says  : “ My  son,  MacDara, 
is  the  Singer  that  has  quickened  the  dead 
years  and  all  the  quiet  dust.”  And  the 

xiv 


INTRODUCTION 


sharp  anguish  of  doubt  is  there  too,  the 
ever-recurring  thought  of  the  apathy  of  the 
nation,  and  the  vision  of  those  “ that  cursed 
me  in  their  hearts  for  having  brought  death 
into  their  houses,”  of  “the  wise,  sad  faces  of 
the  dead,  and  the  keening  of  women.”  But 
the  doubt  comes  from  outside,  it  is  not  born 
within  the  soul,  and  the  stern  resolution  and 
saeva  indignatio  conquer  it  and  persist.  The 
mother  is  evoked  in  whose  calendar  of  saints 
the  martyrs  will  be  inscribed,  who  will 
ponder  at  night  in  her  heart  in  religious 
quiet  on  “the  little  names  that  were  familiar 
once  round  her  dead  hearth.”  And  through 
all,  as  if  nature  would  have  her  revenge 
for  the  over-strain,  breaks  in  a flash  the 
love  of  the  old-sought,  fugitive  beauty  of 
things,  the 

“ Little  rabbits  in  a field  at  evening 
Lit  by  a slanting  sun, 

Or  some  green  hill  where  shadows  drifted  by. 
Some  quiet  hill  where  mountainy  man  hath 
sown 

And  soon  would  reap  ; near  to  the  gate  of 
Heaven  ; 

Or  children  with  bare  feet  upon  the  sands 

xv 


INTRODUCTION 


Of  some  ebbed  sea,  or  playing  on  the  streets 
Of  little  towns  in  Connacht. ” 

Taken  in  the  order  I have  indicated,  the 
work  of  Padraic  Pearse  seems  to  me  to 
constitute  a mystical  book  of  the  love  of 
Ireland.  In  losagan  we  have  the  tender 
and  satisfied  love  of  the  fervent  novice, 
delighting  in  the  old-world,  yet  ever  youth- 
ful charm  of  the  Gaelic  race,  untroubled  by 
the  clouded  day  of  maturity.  We  find  in 
An  Matair , and  in  some  of  the  poems 
and  plays  the  way  of  purgation  by  doubt 
and  suffering.  In  the  last  plays  and  poems 
we  reach  unity  and  illumination,  the  glow 
of  the  soul  in  the  fire  of  martyrdom.  And 
all  these  states  of  love  are  interwoven,  as 
they  should  be,  in  the  separate  stages,  though 
a different  one  may  have  predominance  in 
each.  I believe  the  generations  of  Irishmen 
yet  to  be  born  into  the  national  faith  will 
come  to  the  reading  of  this  book  as  to  a kind 
of  Itinerarium  Mentis  ad  Deum , a journey  to 
the  realization  of  Ireland,  past,  present  and 
to  come,  a learning  of  all  the  love  and 
enthusiasm  and  resolve  which  that  realiza- 
tion implies: 


xvi 


INTRODUCTION 


“ Live  in  these  conquering  leaves  ; live  all 
the  same  ; 

And  walk  through  all  tongues  one  triumph- 
ant flame. 

Live  here,  great  heart ; and  love,  and  die, 
and  kill ; 

And  bleed  and  wound  ; and  yield  and  con- 
quer still.” 

Those  who  look  in  these  pages  for  a 
vision  of  Pagan  Ireland,  with  its  pre- 
Christian  gods  and  heroes,  will  be  disap- 
pointed. The  old  divinities  and  figures 
of  the  sagas  are  there,  and  the  remnants  of 
the  old  worship  in  the  minds  of  the  people 
are  delineated,  but  everything  is  over- 
shadowed by  the  Christian  concept,  and 
the  religion  that  is  found  here  centres  in 
Christ  and  Mary.  The  effect  of  fifteen 
centuries  of  Christianity  is  not  ignored  or 
despised.  The  ideas  of  sacrifice  and  atone- 
ment, of  the  blood  of  martyrs  that  makes 
fruitful  the  seed  of  the  faith,  are  to  be  found 
all  through  these  writings ; nay,  they  have 
here  even  more  than  their  religious  signifi- 
cance, and  become  vitalizing  factors  in  the 
struggle  for  Irish  nationality.  The  doubts 

xvii 


INTRODUCTION 


and  weaknesses  which  are  described  arc  not 
those  of  people  who  are  inclined  to  return 
to  the  former  beliefs,  but  of  men  whose 
souls  are  grown  faint  on  account  of  the 
lethargy  which  they  see  around  them.  For 
years  they  have  preached  and  laboured  and 
sung  ; but  the  masses  remain  unmoved. 
What  wonder  if  they  feel  unable  to  repeat 
with  conviction  : “ Think  you  not  that  I 
can  ask  the  Father,  and  He  will  give  me 
presently  twelve  legions  of  angels  ? ” 

No,  the  Ireland  about  which  Pearse  writes 
is  not  the  land  of  the  early  heroes,  but  of 
people  deeply  imbued  with  the  Christian 
idea  and  will.  And  yet  we  feel  that  the 
ancient  and  mediaeval  and  modern  Gaelic 
currents  meet  in  him.  By  his  life  and  death 
he  has  become  one  with  Cuchulainn  and 
Fionn  and  Oisin,  with  the  early  teachers, 
terrible  or  gentle,  of  Christianity,  with 
Hugh  of  Dungannon  and  Owen  Roe  and 
all  the  chieftains  who  fought  against  the 
growing  power  of  the  Sassenach,  with 
Wolfe  Tone  and  the  United  Irishmen,  with 
Rossa,  O’Leary,  and  the  Fenians.  He  will 
appeal  to  the  imagination  of  times  to  come 
more  than  any  of  the  rebels  of  the  last 

xviii 


INTRODUCTION 

hundred  and  thirty  years,  because  in  him  all 
the  tendencies  of  Irish  thought,  culture  and 
nationality  were  more  fully  developed.  His 
name  and  deeds  will  be  taught  by  mothers 
to  their  children  long  before  the  time  when 
they  will  be  learned  in  school  histories.  To 
older  people  he  will  be  a watchword  in  the 
national  fight,  a symbol  of  the  unbroken 
continuity  and  permanence  of  the  Gaelic 
tradition.  And  they  will  think  of  him  for- 
ever in  different  ways,  as  a poet  who  sang 
the  songs  of  his  country,  as  a soldier  who 
died  for  it,  as  a martyr  who  bore  witness 
wi  th  h is  blood  to  the  truth  of  his  faith,  as 
a hero,  a second  Cuchulainn,  who  battled 
with  a divine  frenzy  to  stem  the  waves  of 
the  invading  tide. 

P.  BROWNE. 

Maynooth , 21st  May , 1917. 


x\x 


THE  SINGER 


CHARACTERS 


MacDara,  the  Singer 
Colm,  his  Brother 

Maire  ni  Fhiannachta,  Mother  of 
MacDara 
Sighle 

Maoilsheachlainn,  a Schoolmaster 
CUIMIN  EANNA 
Diarmaid  of  the  Bridge 


THE  SINGER 


The  wide , clean  kitchen  of  a country  house . 
To  the  left  a door , which  when  open , shows  a 
wild  country  with  a background  of  lonely 
hills ; to  the  right  a fireplace,  beside  which 
another  door  leads  to  a room . A candle 
burns  on  the  table . 

Maire  ni  Fhiannachta , a sad , grey-haired 
woman , £r  spinning  wool  near  the  fire . Sigh/e, 
a young  girl , crouches  in  the  ingle  nook , 
carding . *S/fo  is  bare-footed. 

Maire.  Mend  the  fire,  Sighle,  jewel. 
Sighle.  Are  you  cold  ? 

Maire.  The  feet  of  me  are  cold. 

Sighle  rises  and  mends  the  fire , putting  on 
more  turf ; then  she  sits  down  again  and 
resumes  her  carding . 

Sighle.  You  had  a right  to  go  to  bed. 
Maire.  I couldn’t  have  slept,  child.  I 
had  a feeling  that  something  was  drawing 
near  to  us.  That  something  or  somebody 
was  coming  here.  All  day  yesterday  I 
heard  footsteps  abroad  on  the  street. 

3 


THE  SINGER 


Sighle.  ’Twas  the  dry  leaves.  The 
quicken  trees  in  the  gap  were  losing  their 
leaves  in  the  high  wind. 

Maire.  Maybe  so.  Did  you  think  that 
Colm  looked  anxious  in  himself  last  night 
when  he  was  going  out? 

Sighle.  I may  as  well  quench  that  candle. 
The  dawn  has  whitened. 

She  rises  and  quenches  the  candle ; then 
resumes  her  place. 

Maire.  Did  you  think,  daughter,  that 
Colm  looked  anxious  and  sorrowful  in  him- 
self when  he  was  going  out  ? 

Sighle.  I did. 

Maire.  Was  he  saying  anything  to  you? 

Sighle.  He  was.  ( They  work  silently 
for  a few  minutes ; then  Sighle  stops  and 
speaks .)  Maire  ni  Fhiannachta,  I think 

I ought  to  tell  you  what  your  son  said  to 
me.  I have  been  going  over  and  over  it 
in  my  mind  all  the  long  hours  of  the  night. 
It  is  not  right  for  the  two  of  us  to  be 
sitting  at  this  fire  with  a secret  like  that 
coming  between  us.  Will  I tell  you  what 
Colm  said  to  me  ? 

Maire.  You  may  tell  me  if  you  like* 
Sighle  girl. 


4 


THE  SINGER 

Sighle.  He  said  to  me  that  he  was  very- 
fond  of  me. 

Maire  (who  has  stopped  spinning ).  Yes, 
daughter  ? 

Sighle.  And  . . . and  he  asked  me  if 
he  came  safe  out  of  the  trouble,  would  I 
marry  him. 

Maire.  What  did  you  say  to  him  ? 

Sighle.  I told  him  that  I could  not  give 
him  any  answer. 

Maire.  Did  he  ask  you  why  you  could 
not  give  him  an  answer  ? 

Sighle.  He  did ; and  I didn’t  know  what 
to  tell  him. 

Maire.  Can  you  tell  me  ? 

Sighle.  Do  you  remember  the  day  I first 
came  to  your  house,  Maire  ? 

Maire.  I do  well. 

Sighle. Doyou  rememberhowlonely  I was? 

Maire.  I do,  you  creature.  Didn’t  I 
cry  myself  when  the  priest  brought  you  in 
to  me  ? And  you  caught  hold  of  my  skirt 
and  wouldn’t  let  it  go,  but  cried  till  I 
thought  your  heart  would  break.  “ They’ve 
put  my  mammie  in  the  ground,”  you  kept 
saying.  “ She  was  asleep,  and  they  put 
her  in  the  ground.” 


5 


THE  SINGER 


Sighle.  And  you  went  down  on  your 
knees  beside  me  and  put  your  two  arms 
around  me,  and  put  your  cheek  against  my 
cheek  and  said  nothing  but  “ God  comfort 
you  ; God  comfort  you.”  And  when  I 
stopped  crying  a little,  you  brought  me  over 
to  the  fire.  Your  two  sons  were  at  the  fire, 
Maire.  Colm  was  in  the  ingle  where  I am 
now;  MacDara  was  sitting  where  you  are. 
MacDara  stooped  down  and  lifted  me  on 
to  his  knee  — I was  only  a weeshy  child. 
He  stroked  my  hair.  Then  he  began 
singing  a little  song  to  me,  a little  song 
that  had  sad  words  in  it,  but  that  had  joy 
in  the  heart  of  it,  and  in  the  beat  of  it ; 
and  the  words  and  the  music  grew  very 
caressing  and  soothing  like,  . . . like 

my  mother’s  hand  when  it  was  on  my 
cheek,  or  my  mother’s  kiss  on  my  mouth 
when  I’d  be  half  asleep  — 

Maire.  Yes,  daughter  ? 

Sighle.  And  it  soothed  me,  and  soothed 
me;  and  I began  to  think  that  I was  at  home 
again,  and  I fell  asleep  in  MacDara’s  arms 
— oh,  the  strong,  strong  arms  of  him,  with 
his  soft  voice  soothing  me — when  I woke 
up  long  after  that  I was  still  in  his  arms 

6 


THE  SINGER 


with  my  head  on  his  shoulder.  I opened 
my  eyes  and  looked  up  at  him.  He  smiled 
at  me  and  said,  “ That  was  a good,  long 
sleep.”  I put  up  my  face  to  him 

to  be  kissed,  and  he  bent  down  his  head 
and  kissed  me.  He  was  so  gentle,  so 
gentle.  ( Maire  cries  silently .)  I had  no  right 
to  tell  you  all  this.  God  forgive  me  for 
bringing  those  tears  to  you,  Maire  ni 
Fhiannachta. 

Maire.  Whist,  girl.  You  had  a right 
to  tell  me.  Go  on,  jewel  . . . my 

boy,  my  poor  boy  ! 

Sighle.  I was  only  a weeshy  child  — 

Maire.  Eight  years  you  were,  no  more, 
the  day  the  priest  brought  you  into  the  house. 

Sighle.  How  old  was  MacDara  ? 

Maire.  He  was  turned  fifteen.  Fifteen 
he  was  on  St.  MacDara’s  day,  the  year 
your  mother  died.  > 

Sighle.  This  house  was  as  dear  to  me 
nearly  as  my  mother’s  house  from  that  day. 
You  were  good  to  me,  Maire  ni  Fhiannachta, 
and  your  two  boys  were  good  to  me,  but — 

Maire.  Yes,  daughter? 

Sighle.  MacDara  was  like  sun  and  moon 
to  me,  like  dew  and  rain  to  me,  like  strength 


THE  SINGER 


and  sweetness  to  me.  I don’t  know  did 
he  know  I was  so  fond  of  him.  I think 
he  did,  because  — 

Maire.  He  did  know,  child. 

Sighle.  How  do  you  know  that  he  knew  ? 
Did  he  tell  you  ? Did  you  know  ? 

Maire.  1 am  his  mother.  Don’t  I know 
every  fibre  of  his  body  ? Don’t  I know 
every  thought  of  his  mind  ? He  never  told 
me  ; but  well  I knew. 

Sighle.  He  put  me  into  his  songs.  That 
is  what  made  me  think  he  knew.  My 
name  was  in  many  a song  that  he  made. 
Often  when  I was  at  the  fosaidheacht  he 
would  come  up  into  the  green  mam  to  me, 
with  a little  song  that  he  had  made.  It  was 
happy  for  us  in  the  green  mam  that  time. 

Maire.  It  was  happy  for  us  all  when 
MacDara  was  here. 

Sighle.  The  heart  in  the  breast  of  me 
nearly  broke  when  they  banished  him 
from  us. 

Maire.  I knew  it  well. 

Sighle.  I used  to  lie  awake  in  the  night 
with  his  songs  going  through  my  brain,  and 
the  music  of  his  voice.  I used  to  call  his 
name  up  in  the  green  mam . At  Mass  his 

8 


THE  SINGER 


face  used  to  come  between  me  and  the 
white  Host. 

Maire.  We  have  both  been  lonely  for 
him.  The  house  has  been  lonely  for  him. 

Sighle.  Colm  never  knew  I was  so  fond 
of  MacDara.  When  MacDara  went  away 
Colm  was  kinder  to  me  than  ever, — but, 
indeed,  he  was  always  kind. 

Maire.  Colm  is  a kind  bov. 

j 

Sighle.  It  was  not  till  yesterday  he 
told  me  he  was  fond  of  me ; I never 
thought  it,  I liked  him  well,  but  I never 
thought  there  would  be  word  of  marriage 
between  us.  I don’t  think  he  would  have 
spoken  if  it  was  not  for  the  trouble  coming. 
He  says  it  will  be  soon  now. 

Maire.  It  will  be  very  soon. 

Sighle.  I shiver  when  I think  of  them 
all  going  out  to  fight.  They  will  go  out 
laughing : I see  them  with  their  cheeks 
flushed  and  their  red  lips  apart.  And  then 
they  will  lie  very  still  on  the  hillside, — so 
still  and  white,  with  no  red  in  their  cheeks, 
but  maybe  a red  wound  in  their  white 
breasts,  or  on  their  white  foreheads.  Colm’s 
hair  will  be  dabbled  with  blood. 

Maire.  Whist,  daughter.  That  is  no 

9 


U 


THE  SINGER 


talk  for  one  that  was  reared  in  this  house. 

I am  his  mother,  and  I do  not  grudge 
him. 

Sighle.  Forgive  me,  you  have  known 
more  sorrow  than  I,  and  I think  only  of  my 
own  sorrow.  [She  rises  and  kisses  Maire.)  I 
am  proud  other  times  to  think  of  so  many 
young  men,  young  men  with  straight,  strong 
limbs,  and  smooth,  white  flesh,  going  out 
into  great  peril  because  a voice  has  called 
to  them  to  right  the  wrong  of  the  people. 
Oh,  I would  like  to  see  the  man  that  has 
set  their  hearts  on  fire  with  the  breath  of x 
his  voice ! They  say  that  he  is  very 
young.  They  say  that  he  is  one  of  our- 
selves,— a mountainy  man  that  speaks  our 
speech,  and  has  known  hunger  and  sorrow. 

Maire.  The  strength  and  the  sweetness 
he  has  come,  maybe,  out  of  his  sorrow. 

Sighle.  I heard  Diarmaid  of  the  Bridge 
say  that  he  was  at  the  fair  of  Uachtar  Ard 
yesterday.  There  were  hundreds  in  the 
streets  striving  to  see  him. 

Maire.  I wonder  would  he  be  coming 
here  into  Cois-Fhairrge,  or  is  it  into  the 
Joyce  country  he  would  go?  I don’t  know 
but  it’s  his  coming  I felt  all  day  yesterday, 


THE  SINGER 

and  all  night.  I thought,  maybe,  it  might 
be  — 

Sighle.  Who  did  you  think  it  might  be? 

Maire.  I thought  it  might  be  my  son 
was  coming  to  me. 

Sighle.  Is  it  MacDara  ? 

Maire.  Yes,  MacDara. 

Sighle.  Do  you  think  would  he  come 
back  to  be  with  the  boys  in  the  trouble? 

Maire.  He  would. 

Sighle.  Would  he  be  left  back  now? 

Maire.  Who  would  let  or  stay  him  and 
he  homing  like  a homing  bird  ? Death 
only;  God  between  us  and  harm! 

Sighle.  Amen. 

M aire.  There  is  Colm  in  to  us. 

Sighle  ( looking  out  of  the  window).  Aye, 
he’s  on  the  street. 

Maire.  Poor  Colm  ! 

The  door  opens  and  Colm  comes  in.  He 
is  a lad  of  twenty. 

Colm.  Did  you  not  go  to  bed,  mother? 

Maire.  I did  not,  Colm.  I was  too 
uneasy  to  sleep.  Sighle  kept  me  company 
all  night. 

Colm.  It’s  a pity  of  the  two  of  you  to  be 
up  like  this. 


THE  SINGER 


Maire.  We  would  be  more  lonesome  in 
bed  than  here  chatting.  Had  you  many 
boys  at  the  drill  to-night  ? 

Colm.  We  had,  then.  There  were  ten 
and  three  score. 

Maire.  When  will  the  trouble  be,  Colm  ? 

Colm.  It  will  be  to-morrow,  or  after  to- 
morrow ; or  maybe  sooner.  There’s  a man 
expected  from  Galway  with  the  word. 

Maire.  Is  it  the  mountains  you’ll  take 
to,  or  to  march  to  Uachtar  Ard  or  to 
Galway  ? 

Colm.  It’s  to  march  we’ll  do,  I’m  think- 
ing. Diarmaid  of  the  Bridge  and  Cuimin 
Eanna  and  the  master  will  be  into  us  shortly. 
We  have  some  plans  to  make  and  the  master 
wants  to  write  some  orders. 

Maire.  Is  it  you  will  be  their  captain  ? 

Colm.  It  is,  unless  a better  man  comes  in 
my  place. 

Maire.  What  better  man  would  come? 

Colm.  There  is  talk  of  the  Singer  coming. 
He  was  at  the  fair  of  Uachtar  Ard  yesterday. 

Maire.  Let  you  put  on  the  kettle,  Sighle, 
and  ready  the  room.  The  master  will  be 
asking  a cup  of  tea.  Will  you  lie  down  for 
an  hour,  Colm  ? 


THE  SINGER 

Colm.  I will  not.  They  will  be  in  on 
us  now. 

Maire.  Let  you  make  haste,  Sighle. 
Ready  the  room.  Here,  give  me  the 
kettle. 

Sighle , who  has  brought  a kettle  full  of 

water , gives  it  to  Maire , who  hangs  it  over 

the  fire ; Sighle  goes  into  the  room . 

Colm  ( after  a pause).  Was  Sighle  talking 
to  you,  mother  ? 

Maire.  She  was,  son. 

Colm.  What  did  she  say  ? 

Maire.  She  told  me  what  you  said  to 
her  last  night.  You  must  be  patient,  Colm. 
Don’t  press  her  to  give  you  an  answer  too 
soon.  She  has  strange  thoughts  in  her 
heart,  and  strange  memories. 

Colm.  What  memories  has  she  ? 

Maire.  Many  a woman  has  memories. 

Colm.  Sighle  has  no  memories  but  of  this 
house  and  of  her  mother.  What  is  she  but 
a child  ? 

Maire.  And  what  are  you  but  a child  ? 
Can’t  you  have  patience  ? Children  have 
memories,  but  the  memories  sometimes  die. 
Sighle’s  memories  have  not  died  yet. 

*3 


THE  SINGER 


Colm.  This  is  queer  talk.  What  does 
she  remember  ? 

Maire.  Whist,  there’s  someone  on  the 
street. 

Colm  ( looking  out  of  the  window ).  It’s 
Cuimin  and  the  master. 

Maire.  Be  patient,  son.  Don’t  vex  vour 
head.  What  are  you  both  but  children 
yet  ? 

The  door  opens  and  Cuimin  Ioanna  and 

Maoilsheachlainn  come  in.  Cuimin  is  middle 

aged ; Maoilsheachlainn  past  middle  age , 

turning  grey , and  a little  stooped. 

Cuimin  and  Maoilsheachlainn  (entering). 
God  save  all  here. 

Maire.  God  save  you  men.  Will  you 
sit  ? The  kettle  is  on  the  boil.  Give  the 
master  the  big  chair,  Colm. 

Maoilsheachlainn  ( sitting  down  near  the 
fire  on  the  chair  which  Colm  places  for  him). 
You’re  early  stirring,  Maire. 

Maire.  I didn’t  lie  down  at  all,  master. 

Maoilsheachlainn.  Is  it  to  sit  up  all 
night  you  did  ? 

Maire.  It  is,  then.  Sighle  kept  me 
company. 


H 


THE  SINGER 


Maoilsheachlainn.  Tis  a pity  of  the 
women  of  the  world.  Too  good  they  are- 
for  us,  and  too  full  of  care.  I’m  afraid  that 
there  was  many  a woman  on  this  mountain 
that  sat  up  last  night.  Aye,  and  many  a~ 
woman  in  Ireland.  ’Tis  women  that  keep 
all  the  great  vigils. 

Maire  ( wetting  the  tea).  Why  wouldn’t 
we  sit  up  to  have  a cup  of  tea  ready  for 
you  ? Won’t  you  go  west  into  the  room? 

Maoilsheachlainn.  We’d  as  lief  drink 
it  here  beside  the  fire. 

Maire.  Sighle  is  readying  the  room. 
You’ll  want  the  table  to  write  on,  maybe. 

Maoilsheachlainn.  We’ll  go  west  so. 

Maire.  Wait  till  Sighle  has  the  table 
laid.  The  tea  will  be  drawn  in  a minute. 

Colm  ( to  Maoilsheachlainn) . Was  there  any 
word  of  the  messenger  at  the  forge,  master  ? 

Maoilsheachlainn.  There  was  not. 

Cuimin.  When  we  were  coming  up  the 
boreen  I saw  a man  breasting  Cnoc  an 
Teachta  that  I thought  might  be  him. 

Maoilsheachlainn.  I don’t  think  it  was 
him.  He  was  walking  slowly,  and  sure  the 
messenger  that  brings  that  great  story  will 
come  on  the  wings  of  the  wind. 

*5 


THE  SINGER 


Colm.  Perhaps  it  was  one  of  the  boys 
you  saw  going  home  from  the  drill. 

Cuimin.  No,  it  was  a stranger.  He 
looked  like  a mountainy  man  that  would 
be  coming  from  a distance.  He  might  be 
someone  that  was  at  the  fair  of  Uachtar 
Ard  yesterday,  and  that  stayed  the  evening 
after  selling. 

Maoilsheachlainn.  Aye,  there  did  a lot 
stay,  I’m  told,  talking  about  the  word  that’s 
expected. 

Cuimin.  The  Singer  was  there,  I believe. 
Diarmaid  of  the  Bridge  said  that  he  spoke 
to  them  all  at  the  fair,  and  that  there  did  a 
lot  stay  in  the  town  after  the  fair  thinking 
he’d  speak  to  them  again.  They  say  he^ 
has  the  talk  of  an  angel. 

Maoilsheachlainn.  What  sort  is  he  to 
look  at  ? 

Cuimin.  A poor  man  of  the  mountains. 
Young  they  say  he  is,  and  pale  like  a man 
that  lived  in  cities,  but  with  the  dress 
and  the  speech  of  a mountainy  man  ; shyx 
in  himself  and  very  silent,  till  he  stands  up 
to  talk  to  the  people.  And  then  he  has 
the  voice  of  a silver  trumpet,  and  words  so 
beautiful  that  they  make  the  people  cry. 

16 


THE  SINGER 


And  there  is  terrible  anger  in  him,  for  all 
that  he  is  shrinking  and  gentle.  Diarmaid 
said  that  in  the  Joyce  country  they  think  it 
is  some  great  hero  that  has  come  back 
again  to  lead  the  people  against  the  Gall, 
or  maybe  an  angel,  or  the  Son  of  Mary 
Himself  that  has  come  down  on  the  earth. 

Maoilsheachlainn  ( looking  towards  the 
door).  There’s  a footstep  abroad. 

Maire  ( who  has  been  sitting  very  straight 
in  her  chair  listening  intently).  That  is  my 
son’s  step. 

Colm.  Sure,  amn’t  I here,  mother  ? 
Maire.  That  is  MacDara’s  step. 

All  start  and  look  first  towards  Maire , 
then  towards  the  door , the  latch  of  which 
has  been  touched. 

Maoilsheachlainn.  I wish  it  was  Mac- 
Dara,  Maire.  ’Tis  maybe  Diarmaid  or  the 
mountainy  man  we  saw  on  the  road. 

Maire.  It  is  not  Diarmaid.  It  is  Mac- 
Dara. 

The  door  opens  slowly  and  MacDara , a 
young  man  of  perhaps  twenty  five , dressed 
like  a man  of  the  mountains , stands  on  the 
threshold. 


l7 


c 


THE  SINGER 


MacDara.  God  save  all  here. 

All.  And  you,  likewise. 

Maire  ( who  has  risen  and  is  stretching  out 
her  hands) . I felt  you  coming  to  me,  little 
son  ! 

MacDara  ( springing  to  her  and  folding 
her  in  his  arms).  Little  mother  ! little  mother! 

While  they  still  embrace  Sighle  re-enters 

from  the  room  and  stands  still  on  the  threshold 

looking  at  MacDara . 

Maire  ( raising  her  head).  Along  all  the 
quiet  roads  and  across  all  the  rough  moun- 
tains, and  through  all  the  crowded  towns,  I 
felt  you  drawing  near  to  me. 

MacDara.  Oh,  the  long  years,  the  long 
years  ! 

Maire.  I am  crying  for  pride  at  the  sight 
of  you.  Neighbours,  neighbours,  this  is 
MacDara,  the  first  child  that  I bore  to  my 
husband. 

MacDara  ( kissing  Cohn).  My  little 
brother  ! (To  Cuimin ),  Cuimin  Eanna  ! 
(To  Maoilsheachlainn ),  Master  ! (They  shake 
hands.) 

Maoilsheachlainn.  Welcome  home. 

Cuimin.  Welcome  home. 

1 8 


THE  SINGER 


MacDara  {looking  round).  Where  is  . . 

[He  sees  Sighle  in  the  doorway .)  Sighle ! 
[He  approaches  her  and  takes  her  hand.) 
Little,  little  Sighle  ! . . . I 

Mother,  sometimes  whem-I  was  in  the 
middle  of  great  crowds,  I have  seen  this 
fireplace,  and  you  standing  with  your 
hands  stretched  out  to  me  as  you  stood  a 
minute  ago,  and  Sighle  in  the  doorway  of 
the  room  ; and  my  heart  has  cried  out  to 
you. 

Maire.  I used  to  hear  the  crying  of  yourv 
heart.  Often  and  often  here  by  the  fireside 
or  abroad  on  the  street  I would  stand  and 
say,  “ MacDara  is  crying  out  to  me  now. 
The  heart  in  him  is  yearning.”  And  this 
while  back  I felt  you  draw  near,  draw  near, 
step  by  step.  Last  night  I felt  you  very 
near  to  me.  Do  you  remember  me  saying, 
Sighle,  that  I felt  someone  coming,  and  that 
I thought  maybe  it  might  be  MacDara  ? 

Sighle.  You  did. 

Maire.  I knew  that  something  glorious 
was  coming  to  the  mountain  with  to-day’s 
dawn.  Red  dawns  and  white  dawns  I have 
seen  on  the  hills,  but  none  like  this  dawn. 
Come  in,  jewel,  and  sit  down  awhile  in  the 

19 


THE  SINGER 


room.  Sighle  has  the  table  laid.  The  tea 
is  drawn.  Bring  in  the  griddle-cakes, 
Sighle.  Come  in,  master.  Come  in, 
Cuimin. 

Maoilsheachlainn.  No,  Maire,  we’ll 
sit  here  a while.  You  and  the  children 
will  like  to  be  by  yourselves.  Go  in,  west, 
children.  Cuimin  and  I have  plans  to 
make.  We’re  expecting  Diarmaid  of  the 
Bridge  in. 

Maire.  We  don’t  grudge  you  a share  in 
our  joy,  master.  Nor  you,  Cuimin. 

Cuimin.  No,  go  on  in,  Maire.  We’ll 
go  west  after  you.  We  want  to  talk  here. 

Maire.  Well,  come  in  when  you  have 
your  talk  out.  There’s  enough  tea  on  the 
pot  for  everybody.  In  with  you,  children. 

MacDara , Cohn , Sighle  and  Maire  go 

into  the  room , Sighle  carrying  the  griddle - 

cakes  and  Maire  the  tea . 

Maoilsheachlainn.  This  is  great  news, 
MacDara  to  be  back. 

Cuimin.  Do  you  think  will  he  be  with 

us  ? 

Maoilsheachlainn.  Is  it  a boy  with  that 
gesture  of  the  head,  that  proud,  laughing 

20 


THE  SINGER 


gesture,  to  be  a coward  or  a stag  ? You 
don’t  know  the  heart  of  this  boy,  Cuimin  ; 
the  love  that’s  in  it,  and  the  strength.  You 
don’t  know  the  mind  he  has,  so  gracious,  so 
full  of  wisdom.  I taught  him  when  he  was 
only  a little  ladeen.  ’Tis  a pity  that  he  had 
ever  to  go  away  from  us.  And  yet,  I think, 
his  exile  has  made  him  a better  man.  His 
soul  must  be  full  of  great  remembrances. 

Cuimin.  I never  knew  rightly  why  he 
was  banished. 

Maoilsheachlainn.  Songs  he  was  mak- 
ing that  were  setting  the  people’s  hearts 
on  fire. 

Cuimin.  Aye,  I often  heard  his  songs. 

Maoilsheachlainn.  They  were  full  of 
terrible  love  for  the  people  and  of  great 
anger  against  the  Gall.  Some  said  there  was 
irreligion  in  them  and  blasphemy  against 
God.  But  I never  saw  it,  and  I don’t 
believe  it.  There  are  some  would  have  us 
believe  that  God  is  on  the  side  of  the  Gall. 
Well,  word  came  down  from  Galway  or 
from  Dublin  that  he  would  be  put  in 
prison,  and  maybe  excommunicated  if  he 
did  not  go  away.  He  was  only  a gossoon 
of  eighteen,  or  maybe  twenty.  The  priest 


THE  SINGER 


counselled  him  to  go,  and  not  to  bring 
sorrow  on  his  mother’s  house.  He  went 
away  one  evening  without  taking  farewell 
or  leave  of  anyone. 

Cuimin.  Where  has  he  been  since,  I 
don’t  know  ? 

Maoilsheachlainn.  In  great  cities,  I’d 
say,  and  in  lonely  places.  He  has  the  face 
of  a scholar,  or  of  a priest,  or  of  a clerk,  on 
him.  He  must  have  read  a lot,  and  thought 
a lot,  and  made  a lot  of  songs. 

Cuimin.  I don’t  know  is  he  as  strong  a 
boy  as  Colm. 

Maoilsheachlainn.  He’s  not  as  robust 
in  himself  as  Colm  is,  but  there  was  great 
strength  in  the  grip  of  his  hand.  I’d  say 
that  he’d  wield  a caman  or  a pike  with  any 
boy  on  the  mountain. 

Cuimin.  He’ll  be  a great  backing  to  us 
if  he  is  with  us.  The  people  love  him  on 
account  of  the  songs  he  used  to  make. 
There’s  not  a man  that  won’t  do  his  bidding. 

Maoilsheachlainn.  That’s  so.  And  his 
counsel  will  be  useful  to  us.  He’ll  make 
better  plans  than  you  or  I,  Cuimin. 

Cuimin.  I wonder  what’s  keeping  Diar- 
maid. 


22 


THE  SINGER 


Maoilsheachlainn.  Some  news  that  was 
at  the  forge  or  at  the  priest’s  house,  maybe. 
He  went  east  the  road  to  see  if  there  was 
sign  of  a word  from  Galway. 

Cuimin.  I’ll  be  uneasy  till  he  comes. 
(He  gets  up  and  walks  to  the  window  and  looks 
out ; Maoilsheachlainn  remains  deep  in  thought 
by  the  fire . Cuimin  returns  from  the  window 
and  continues .)  Is  it  to  march  we’ll  do,  or 

to  fight  here  in  the  hills  ? 

Maoilsheachlainn.  Out  Maam  Gap 
we’ll  go  and  meet  the  boys  from  the  Joyce 
country.  We’ll  leave  some  to  guard  the  Gap 
and  some  at  Leenane.  We’ll  march  the 
road  between  the  lakes,  through  Maam  and 
Cornamona  and  Clonbur  to  Cong.  Then 
we’ll  have  friends  on  our  left  at  Ballinrobe 
and  on  our  right  at  Tuam.  What  is  there 
to  stop  us  but  the  few  men  the  Gall  have 
in  Clifden  ? 

Cuimin.  And  if  they  march  against  us, 
we  can  destroy  them  from  the  mountains. 

Maoilsheachlainn.  We  can.  It’s  into 
a trap  they’ll  walk. 

MacDara  appears  in  the  doorway  of  the 
room  with  a cup  of  tea  and  some  griddle- 
cake  in  his  hand. 


23 


THE  SINGER 


MacDara.  I’ve  brought  you  out  a cup 
of  tea,  master.  I thought  it  long  you  were 
sitting  here. 

Maoilsheachlainn  ( taking  it).  God  bless 
you,  MacDara. 

MacDara.  Go  west,  Cuimin.  There’s 
a place  at  the  table  for  you  now. 

Cuimin  ( rising  and  going  in).  I may  as  well. 
Give  me  a call,  boy,  when  Diarmaid  comes. 

Maoilsheachlainn.  This  is  a great  day, 
MacDara. 

MacDara.  It  is  a great  day  and  a glad 
day,  and  yet  it  is  a sorrowful  day. 

Maoilsheachlainn.  How  can  the  day  of 
your  home-coming  be  sorrowful  ? 

MacDara.  Has  not  every  great  jov  a 
great  sorrow  at  its  core  ? Does  not  the 
joy  of  home-coming  enclose  the  pain  of 
departing?  I have  a strange  feeling,  master, 
I have  only  finished  a long  journey,  and  I 
feel  as  if  I were  about  to  take  another  long 
journey.  I meant  this  to  be  a home-coming, 
but  it  seems  only  like  a meeting  on  the 
way.  . . . When  my  mother  stood  up 

to  meet  me  with  her  arms  stretched  out  to 
me,  I thought  of  Mary  meeting  her  Son 
on  the  Dolorous  Way. 

24 


THE  SINGER 


Maoilsheachlainn.  That  was  a queer 
thought.  What  was  it  that  drew  you  home  ? 

MacDara.  Some  secret  thing  that  I have 
no  name  for.  Some  feeling  that  I must  see  N 
my  mother,  and  Colm,  and  Sighle,  again. 

A feeling  that  I must  face  some  great 
adventure  with  their  kisses  on  my  lips.  I 
seemed  to  see  myself  brought  to  die  before 
a great  crowd  that  stood  cold  and  silent ; 
and  there  were  some  that  cursed  me  in  their 
hearts  for  having  brought  death  into  their 
houses.  Sad  dead  faces  seemed  to  reproach 
me.  Oh,  the  wise,  sad  faces  of  the  dead — 
and  the  keening  of  women  rang  in  my  ears. 
But  I felt  that  the  kisses  of  those  three,  warm 
on  my  mouth,  would  be  as  wine  in  my  blood, 
strengthening  me  to  bear  what  men  said, 
and  to  die  with  only  love  and  pity  in  my 
heart,  and  no  bitterness. 

Maoilsheachlainn.  It  was  strange  that 
you  should  see  yourself  like  that. 

MacDara.  It  was  foolish.  One  has 
strange,  lonesome  thoughts  when  one  is  in  x 
the  middle  of  crowds.  But  I am  glad  of 
that  thought,  for  it  drove  me  home.  I felt 
so  lonely  away  from  here.  . . . My 

mother’s  hair  is  greyer  than  it  was. 

25 


THE  SINGER 


Maoilsheachlainn.  Aye,  she  has  been 
ageing.  She  has  had  great  sorrows  : your 
father  dead  and  you  banished.  Colm  is 
grown  a fine,  strapping  boy. 

MacDara.  He  is.  There  is  some  shy- 
ness between  Colm  and  me.  We  have  not 
spoken  yet  as  we  used  to. 

Maoilsheachlainn.  When  bovs  are 

j 

brought  up  together  and  then  parted  for  a 
long  time  there  is  often  shyness  between 
them  when  they  meet  again.  . . . Do 

you  find  Sighle  changed? 

MacDara.  No;  and,  yet — yes.  Master, 
she  is  very  beautiful.  I did  not  know  a 
woman  could  be  so  beautiful.  I thoughts 
that  all  beauty  was  in  the  heart,  that  beauty 
was  a secret  thing  that  could  be  seen  only 
with  the  eyes  of  reverie,  or  in  a dream  of 
some  unborn  splendour.  I had  schooled 
myself  to  think  physical  beauty  an  unholy 
thing.  I tried  to  keep  my  heart  virginal ; 
and  sometimes  in  the  street  of  a city  when 
I have  stopped  to  look  at  the  white  limbs  of 
some  beautiful  child,  and  have  felt  the  pain 
that  the  sight  of  great  beauty  brings,  I have 
wished  that  I could  blind  my  eyes  so  that  I 
might  shut  out  the  sight  of  everything  that 


THE  SINGER 


tempted  me.  At  times  I have  rebelled 
against  that,  and  have  cried  aloud  that  God 
would  not  have  filled  the  world  with  beauty, 
even  to  the  making  drunk  of  the  sight,  if 
beauty  were  not  of  heaven.  But,  then, 
again,  I have  said,  “ This  is  the  subtlest 
form  of  temptation  ; this  is  to  give  to  one’s 
own  desire  the  sanction  of  God’s  will.”  And 
I have  hardened  my  heart  and  kept  myself 
cold  and  chaste  as  the  top  of  a high  moun- 
tain. But  now  I think  I was  wrong,  for 
beauty  like  Sighle’s  must  be  holy. 

Maoilsheachlainn.  Surely  a good  and 
comely  girl  is  holy.  You  question  yourself 
too  much,  MacDara.  You  brood  too 
much.  Do  you  remember  when  you  were 
a gossoon,  how  you  cried  over  the  wild  duck 
whose  wing  you  broke  by  accident  with  a 
stone,  and  made  a song  about  the  crane 
whose  nest  you  found  ravished,  and  about 
the  red  robin  you  found  perished  on  the 
doorstep  ? And  how  the  priest  laughed 
because  you  told  him  in  confession  that  you 
had  stolen  drowned  lilies  from  the  river  ? 

MacDara  [laughing).  Aye,  it  was  at  a 
station  in  Diarmaid  of  the  Bridge’s,  and 
when  the  priest  laughed  my  face  got  red* 

27 


THE  SINGER 


and  everyone  looked  at  us,  and  I got  up  and 
ran  out  of  the  house. 

Maoilsheachlainn  [laughing).  I remem- 
ber it  well.  We  thought  it  was  what  you 
told  him  you  were  in  love  with  his  house- 
keeper. 

MacDara.  It’s  little  but  I was,  too. 
She  used  to  give  me  apples  out  of  the  priest’s 
apple-garden.  Little  brown  russet  apples, 
the  sweetest  I ever  tasted.  I used  to  think 
that  the  apples  of  the  Hesperides  that  the 
Children  of  Tuireann  went  to  quest  must 
have  been  like  them. 

Maoilsheachlainn.  It’s  a wonder  but 
you  made  a poem  about  them. 

MacDara.  I did.  I made  a poem  in 
Deibhidhe  of  twenty  quatrains. 

Maoilsheachlainn.  Did  you  make  many 
songs  while  you  were  away  ? 

MacDara.  When  I went  away  first  my 
heart  was  as  if  dead  and  dumb  and  I could 
not  make  any  songs.  After  a little  while, 
when  I was  going  through  the  sweet,  green 
country,  and  I used  to  come  to  little  towns 
where  I’d  see  children  playing,  my  heart 
seemed  to  open  again  like  hard  ground  that 
would  be  watered  with  rain.  The  first  song 

28 


THE  SINGER 


that  I made  was  about  the  children  that  I 
saw  playing  in  the  street  of  Kilconnell. 
The  next  song  that  I made  was  about  an 
old  dark  man  that  I met  on  the  causeway 
of  Aughrim.  I made  a glad,  proud  song 
when  I saw  the  broad  Shannon  flow  under 
the  bridge  of  Athlone.  I made  many  a 
song  after  that  before  I reached  Dublin. 

Maoilsheachlainn.  How  did  it  fare 
with  you  in  Dublin  ? 

MacDara.  I went  to  a bookseller  and 
gave  him  the  book  of  my  songs  to  print. 
He  said  that  he  dared  not  print  them  ; that 
the  Gall  would  put  him  in  prison  and  break 
up  his  printing-press.  I was  hungry  and  I 
wandered  through  the  streets.  Then  a man 
who  saw  me  read  an  Irish  poster  on  the 
wall  spoke  to  me  and  asked  me  where  I 
came  from.  I told  him  my  story.  In  a 
few  days  he  came  to  me  and  said  that  he 
had  found  work  for  me  to  teach  Irish  and 
Latin  and  Greek  in  a school.  I went  to 
the  school  and  taught  in  it  for  a year.  I 
wrote  a few  poems  and  they  were  printed  in 
a paper.  One  day  the  Brother  who  was 
over  the  school  came  to  me  and  asked  me 
was  it  I that  had  written  those  poems.  I 

29 


THE  SINGER 


said  it  was.  He  told  me  then  that  I could 
not  teach  in  the  school  any  longer.  So  I 
went  away. 

Maoilsheachlainn.  What  happened  to 
you  after  that  ? 

MacDara.  I wandered  in  the  streets 
until  I saw  a notice  that  a teacher  was 
wanted  to  teach  a boy.  I went  to  the 
house  and  a lady  engaged  me  to  teach  her 
little  son  for  ten  shillings  a week.  Two 
years  I spent  at  that.  The  boy  was  a win- 
some child,  and  he  grew  into  my  heart.  I 
thought  it  a wonderful  thing  to  have  the 
moulding  of  a mind,  of  a life,  in  my  hands. 
Do  you  ever  think  that,  you  who  are  a 
schoolmaster  ? 

Maoilsheachlainn.  It’s  not  much  time 
I get  for  thinking. 

MacDara.  I have  done  nothing  all  my 
life  but  think  : think  and  make  poems. 

Maoilsheachlainn.  If  the  thoughts  and 
the  poems  are  good,  that  is  a good  life’s 
work. 

MacDara.  Aye,  they  say  that  to  be  busy 
with  the  things  of  the  spirit  is  better  than 
to  be  busy  with  the  things  of  the  body. 
But  I am  not  sure,  master.  Can  the  Vision 

3° 


THE  SINGER 


Beautiful  alone  content  a man  ? I think  a 
true  man  is  divine  in  this,  that,  like  God, 
he  must  needs  create,  he  must  needs  do. 

Maoilsheachlainn.  Is  not  a poet  a 
maker  ? 

MacDara.  No,  he  is  only  a voice  that 
cries  out,  a sigh  that  trembles  into  rest. 
The  true  teacher  must  suffer  and  do.  He 
must  break  bread  to  the  people : he  must 
go  into  Gethsemane  and  toil  up  the  steep  of 
Golgotha.  . . . Sometimes  I think  that 

to  be  a woman  and  to  serve  and  suffer  as 
women  do  is  to  be  the  highest  thing. 
Perhaps  that  is  why  I felt  it  proud  and 
wondrous  to  be  a teacher,  for  a teacher  does 
that.  I gave  to  the  little  lad  I taught  the 
very  flesh  and  blood  and  breath  that  were 
my  life.  I fed  him  on  the  milk  of  my 
kindness ; I breathed  into  him  my  spirit. 

Maoilsheachlainn.  Did  he  repay  you 
for  that  great  service? 

MacDara.  Can  any  child  repay  its 
mother?  Master,  your  trade  is  the  most 
sorrowful  of  all  trades.  You  are  like  a poor 
mother  who  spends  herself  in  nursing  chil- 
dren who  go  away  and  never  come  back  to 
her. 


3 1 


THE  SINGER 


Maoilsheachlainn.  Was  your  little  pupil 
untrue  to  you  ? 

MacDara.  Nay;  he  was  so  true  to  me 
that  his  mother  grew  jealous  of  me.  A good 
mother  and  a good  teacher  are  always  jealous 
of  each  other.  That  is  why  a teacher's 
trade  is  the  most  sorrowful  of  all  trades.  If 
he  is  a bad  teacher  his  pupil  wanders  away 
from  him.  If  he  is  a good  teacher  his 
pupil’s  folk  grow  jealous  of  him.  My  little 
pupil’s  mother  bade  him  choose  between 
her  and  me. 

Maoilsheachlainn.  Which  did  he 
choose  ? 

MacDara.  He  chose  his  mother.  How 
could  I blame  him  ? 

Maoilsheachlainn.  What  did  you  do  ? 

MacDara.  I shouldered  my  bundle  and 
took  to  the  roads. 

Maoilsheachlainn.  How  did  it  fare  with 
you  ? 

MacDara.  It  fares  ill  with  one  who  is 
so  poor  that  he  has  no  longer  even  his 
dreams.  I was  the  poorest  shuiler  on  the 
roads  of  Ireland,  for  I had  no  single  illusion 
left  to  me.  I could  neither  pray  when  I 
came  to  a holy  well  nor  drink  in  a public- 

32 


THE  SINGER 


house  when  I had  got  a little  money.  One 
seemed  to  me  as  foolish  as  the  other. 

Maoilsheachlainn.  Did  you  make  no 
songs  in  those  days? 

MacDara.  I made  one  so  bitter  that 
when  I recited  it  at  a wake  they  thought  I 
was  some  wandering,  wicked  spirit,  and 
they  put  me  out  of  the  house. 

Maoilsheachlainn.  Did  you  not  pray  at 
all? 

MacDara.  Once,  as  I knelt  by  the  cross 
of  Kilgobbin,  it  became  clear  to  me,  with 
an  awful  clearness,  that  there  was  no  God. 
Why  pray  after  that  ? I burst  into  a fit  of 
laughter  at  the  folly  of  men  in  thinking  that 
there  is  a God.  I felt  inclined  to  run  through 
the  villages  and  cry  aloud,  “ People,  it  is  all 
a mistake  ; there  is  no  God.” 

Maoilsheachlainn.  MacDara,  this  grieves 
me. 

MacDara.  Then  I said,  “ why  take 
away  their  illusion  ? If  they  find  out  that 
there  is  no  God,  their  hearts  will  be  as 
lonely  as  mine.”  So  I walked  the  roads 
with  my  secret. 

Maoilsheachlainn.  MacDara,  I am  sorry 
for  this.  You  must  pray,  you  must  pray. 

33  d- 


THE  SINGER 


You  will  find  God  again.  He  has  only 
hidden  His  face  from  you. 

MacDara.  No,  He  has  revealed  His 
Face  to  me.  His  Face  is  terrible  and  sweet, 
Maoilsheachlainn.  I know  It  well  now. 

Maoilsheachlainn.  Then  you  found 
Him  again  ? 

MacDara.  His  Name  is  suffering.  His 
Name  is  loneliness.  His  Name  is  abjec- 
tion. 

Maoilsheachlainn.  I do  not  rightly 
understand  you,  and  yet  I think  you  are 
saying  something  that  is  true. 

MacDara.  I have  lived  with  the  home- 
less and  with  the  breadless.  Oh,  Maoilsheach- 
lainn, the  poor,  the  poor  ! I have  seen  such 
sad  childings,  such  bare  marriage  feasts,  such 
candleless  wakes  ! In  the  pleasant  country 
places  I have  seen  them,  but  oftener  in  the 
dark,  unquiet  streets  of  the  city.  My  heart 
has  been  heavy  with  the  sorrow  of  mothers, 
my  eyes  have  been  wet  with  the  tears  of 
children.  The  people,  Maoilsheachlainn, 
the  dumb,  suffering  people  : reviled  and 
outcast,  yet  pure  and  splendid  and  faithful. 
In  them  I saw,  or  seemed  to  see  again,  the 
Face  of  God.  Ah,  it  is  a tear-stained  face, 

34 


THE  SINGER 


blood-stained,  defiled  with  ordure,  but  it  is 
the  Holy  Face ! 


There  is  a page  of  MS.  missing  here , 
which  evidently  covered  the  exit  to  the  room 
oj  MacDara  and  the  entrance  of  Diarmaid . 

Maoilsheachlainn.  What  news  have  you 
with  you  ? 

Diarmaid.  The  Gall  have  marched  from 
Clifden. 

Maoilsheachlainn.  Is  it  into  the  hills? 
Diarmaid.  By  Letterfrack  they  have 
come,  and  the  Pass  of  Kylemore,  and 
through  Glen  Inagh.  ^ 

Colm.  And  no  word  from  Galway  yet  ? 
Diarmaid.  No  word,  nor  sign  of  a word. 
Colm.  They  told  us  to  wait  for  the  word. 
We’ve  waited  too  long. 

Maoilsheachlainn.  The  messenger  may 
have  been  caught.  Perhaps  the  Gall  are 
marching  from  Galway  too. 

Colm.  We’d  best  strike  ourselves,  so. 
Cuimin.  Is  it  to  strike  before  the  word  is 
given  ? 


35 


THE  SINGER 


Colm.  Is  it  to  die  like  rats  you’d  have  us 
because  the  word  is  not  given  ? 

Cuimin.  Our  plans  are  not  finished  ; our 
orders  are  not  here. 

Colm.  Our  plans  will  never  be  finished. 
Our  orders  may  never  be  here. 

Cuimin.  We’ve  no  one  to  lead  us. 

Colm.  Didn’t  you  elect  me  your  captain  ? 

Cuimin.  We  did  : but  not  to  bid  us  rise 
out  when  the  whole  country  is  quiet.  We 
were  to  get  the  word  from  the  men  that  are 
over  the  people.  They’ll  speak  when  the 
time  comes. 

Colm.  They  should  have  spoken  before 
the  Gall  marched. 

Cuimin.  What  call  have  you  to  say  what 
they  should  or  what  they  should  not  have 
done  ? Am  I speaking  lie  or  truth,  men  ? 
Are  we  to  rise  out  before  the  word  comes? 
I say  we  must  wait  for  the  word.  What  do 
you  say,  Diarmaid,  you  that  was  our  mes- 
senger to  Galway  ? 

Diarmaid.  I like  the  way  Colm  has 
spoken,  and  we  may  live  to  say  that  he 
spoke  wisely  as  well  as  bravely  ; but  I’m 
slow  to  give  my  voice  to  send  out  the  boys 
of  this  mountain — our  poor  little  handful — 

36 


THE  SINGER 


to  stand  with  their  poor  pikes  against  the 
big  guns  of  the  Gall.  If  we  had  news  that 
they  were  rising  in  the  other  countrysides  ; 
but  we’ve  got  no  news. 

Cuimin.  What  do  you  say,  master? 
You’re  wiser  than  any  of  us. 

Maoilsheachlainn.  I say  to  Colm  that 
a greater  one  than  he  or  I may  give  us  the 
word  before  the  day  is  old.  Let  you  have 
patience,  Colm  — 

Colm.  My  mother  told  me  to  have 
patience  this  morning,  when  MacDara’s 
step  was  on  the  street.  Patience,  and  I 
after  waiting  seven  years  before  I spoke,  and 
then  to  speak  too  late  ! 

Maoilsheachlainn.  What  are  you  saying 
at  all  ? 

Colm.  I am  saying  this,  master,  that  I’m 
going  out  the  road  to  meet  the  Gall,  if  only 
five  men  of  the  mountain  follow  me. 

Sigh/e  has  appeared  in  the  doorway  and 
stands  terror-stricken . 

Cuimin.  You  will  not,  Colm. 

Colm.  I will. 

Diarmaid.  This  is  throwing  away  men’s 
lives. 

Colm.  Men’s  lives  get  very  precious  to 

37 


THE  SINGER 


them  when  they  have  bought  out  their  land. 
Maoilsheachlainn.  Listen  tome,Colm  — 

Colm  goes  out  angrily , and  the  others  follow 
him , trying  to  restrain  him.  Sighle  comes  to 
the  fire , where  she  kneels. 

Sighle  (as  in  a reverie ).  “ They  will  go 
out  laughing,”  I said,  but  Colm  has  gone 
out  with  anger  in  his  heart.  And  he  was 
so  kind.  . . . Love  is  a terrible  thing. 

There  is  no  pain  so  great  as  the  pain  of 
love.  ...  I wish  MacDara  and  I were 
children  in  the  green  mam  and  that  we  did 
not  know  that  we  loved  each  other. 

Colm  will  lie  dead  on  the  road  to  Glen 
Inagh,  and  MacDara  will  go  out  to  die. 

There  is  nothing  in  the  world  but 
love  and  death. 

MacDara  comes  out  of  the  room. 
MacDara  (in  a low  voice').  She  has 
dropped  asleep,  Sighle. 

Sighle.  She  watched  long,  MacDara. 
We  all  watched  long. 

MacDara.  Every  long  watch  ends. 
Every  traveller  comes  home. 

Sighle.  Sometimes  when  people  watch  it 
is  death  that  comes. 


THE  SINGER 


MacDara.  Could  there  be  a rovalier 

J 

coming,  Sighle  ? . . . Once  I wanted 

life.  You  and  I to  be  together  in  one  place 
always  : that  is  what  I wanted.  But  now  I 
see  that  we  shall  be  together  for  a little  time 
only  ; that  I have  to  do  a hard,  sweet  thing, 
and  that  I must  do  it  alone.  And  because 
I love  you  I would  not  have  it  different. 

I wanted  to  have  your  kiss  on  my 
lips,  Sighle,  as  well  as  my  mother’s  and 
Colm’s.  But  I will  deny  myself  that. 
( Sighle  is  crying.)  Don’t  cry,  child.  Stay 
near  my  mother  while  she  lives — it  may  be 
for  a little  while  of  years.  You  poor  women 
suffer  so  much  pain,  so  much  sorrow,  and 
yet  you  do  not  die  until  long  after  your 
strong,  young  sons  and  lovers  have  died. 

Ma ire's  voice  is  heard  from  the  room , 
crying  : MacDara  ! 

MacDara.  She  is  calling  me. 

He  goes  into  the  room  ; Sighle  cries  on  her 
knees  by  the  fire.  After  a little  while  voices 
are  heard  outside , the  latch  is  lifted , and 
Maoilsheachlainn  comes  in. 

Sighle.  Is  he  gone,  master? 
Maoilsheachlainn.  Gone  out  the  road 

39 


THE  SINGER 


with  ten  or  fifteen  of  the  young  lads.  Is 
MacDara  within  still? 

Sighle.  He  was  here  in  the  kitchen 
a while.  His  mother  called  him  and  he 
went  back  to  her. 

Maoilsheachlainn  goes  over  and  sits  down 
near  the  fire. 

Maoilsheachlainn.  I think,  maybe,  that 
Colm  did  what  was  right.  We  are  too  old 
to  be  at  the  head  of  work  like  this.  Was 
MacDara  talking  to  you  about  the  trouble  ? 

Sighle.  He  said  that  he  would  have  to  do 
a hard,  sweet  thing,  and  that  he  would  have 
to  do  it  alone. 

Maoilsheachlainn.  I’m  sorry  but  I 
called  him  before  Colm  went  out. 

A murmur  is  heard  as  oj  a crowd  of  men 
talking  as  they  come  up  the  hill. 

Sighle.  What  is  that  noise  like  voices? 

Maoilsheachlainn.  It  is  the  boys  coming 
up  the  hillside.  There  was  a great  crowd 
gathering  below  at  the  cross. 

The  voices  swell  loud  outside  the  door.  Cuimin 
Eanna , Diarmaid , and  some  others  come  in. 

Diarmaid.  The  men  say  we  did  wrong 
to  let  Colm  go  out  with  that  little  handful. 
They  say  we  should  all  have  marched. 

40 


THE  SINGER 


Cuimin.  And  I say  Colm  was  wrong  to 
go  before  he  got  his  orders.  Are  we  all  to 
go  out  and  get  shot  down  because  one  man 
is  hotheaded  ? Where  is  the  plan  that  was 
to  come  from  Galway  ? 

Maoilsheachlainn.  Men,  I’m  blaming 
myself  for  not  saying  the  thing  I’m  going 
to  say  before  we  let  Colm  go.  We  talk 
about  getting  word  from  Galway.  What 
would  you  say,  neighbours,  if  the  man  that 
will  give  the  word  is  under  the  roof  of  this 
house. 

Cuimin.  Who  is  it  you  mean  ? 
Maoilsheachlainn  {going  to  the  door  op 
the  room  and  throwing  it  open ).  Let  you  rise 
out,  MacDara,  and  reveal  yourself  to  the 
men  that  are  waiting  for  your  word. 

One  of  the  Newcomers.  Has  MacDara 
come  home  ? 

MacDara  comes  out  of  the  room  : Maire 
ni  Fhiannachta  stands  behind  him  in  the 
doorway . 

D i arm  aid  {starting  up  from  where  he  has 
been  sitting ).  That  is  the  man  that  stood 
among  the  people  in  the  fair  of  Uachtar  Ard  ! 
{He  goes  up  to  MacDara  and  kisses  his  hand .) 

41 


THE  SINGER 


I could  not  get  near  you  yesterday,  MacDara, 
with  the  crowds  that  were  round  you. 
What  was  on  me  that  didn’t  know  you  ? 
Sure,  I had  a right  to  know  that  sad,  proud 
head.  Maire  ni  Fhiannachta,  men  and 
women  yet  unborn  will  bless  the  pains  of 
your  first  childing. 

Maire  ni  Fhiannachta  comes  forward 
slowly  and  takes  her  son  s hand  and  kisses  it. 
Maire  (in  a low  voice).  Soft  hand  that 
played  at  my  breast,  strong  hand  that 
will  fall  heavy  on  the  Gall,  brave  hand 
that  will  break  the  yoke  ! Men  of 
this  mountain,  my  son  MacDara  is  the 
Singer  that  has  quickened  the  dead  years 
and  all  the  quiet  dust  ! Let  the  horsemen 
that  sleep  in  Aileach  rise  up  and  follow  him 
into  the  war  ! Weave  your  winding-sheets, 
women,  for  there  will  be  many  a noble 
corpse  to  be  waked  before  the  new  moon  ! 

Each  comes  forward  and  kisses 
his  hand. 

Maoilsheachlainn.  Let  you  speak, 
MacDara,  and  tell  us  is  it  time. 

MacDara.  Where  is  Colm? 

Diarmaid.  Gone  out  the  road  to  fight  the 
Gall,  himself  and  fifteen. 

42 


THE  SINGER 

MacDara.  Has  not  Colm  spoken  by  his 
deed  already  ? 

Cuimin.  You  are  our  leader. 

MacDara.  Your  leader  is  the  man  that 
spoke  first.  Give  me  a pike  and  I will 
follow  Colm.  Why  did  you  let  him  go  out 
with  fifteen  men  only?  You  are  fourscore 
on  the  mountain. 

Diarmaid.  We  thought  it  a foolish  thing 
for  fourscore  to  go  into  battle  against  four 
thousand,  or,  maybe,  forty  thousand. 

MacDara.  And  so  it  is  a foolish  thing. 
Do  you  want  us  to  be  wise  ? 

Cuimin.  This  is  strange  talk. 

MacDara.  I will  talk  to  you  more 
strangely  yet.  It  is  for  your  own  souls’ 
sakes  I would  have  had  the  fourscore  go, 
and  not  for  Colm’s  sake,  or  for  the  battle’s 
sake,  for  the  battle  is  won  whether  you  go 
or  not. 

A cry  is  heard  outside.  One  rushes  in 
terror-stricken. 

The  Newcomer.  Young  Colm  has  fallen 
at  the  Glen  foot. 

MacDara.  The  fifteen  were  too  many. 
Old  men,  you  did  not  do  your  work  well 
enough.  You  should  have  kept  all  back  but 

43 


THE  SINGER 


one.  One  man  can  free  a people  as  one 
Man  redeemed  the  world.  I will  take  no 
pike,  I will  go  into  the  battle  with  bare 
hands.  I will  stand  up  before  the  Gall  as 
Christ  hung  naked  before  men  on  the  tree! 

He  moves  through  them , pulling  off  his 
clothes  as  he  goes.  As  he  reaches  the  threshold 
a great  shout  goes  up  from  the  people . He 
passes  out  and  the  shout  dies  slowly  away . 
The  other  men  follow  him  slowly.  Maire 
ni  Fhiannachta  sits  down  at  the  fre , where 
Sighle  still  crouches . 


THE  CURTAIN  DESCENDS. 


44 


THE  KTNG 


A MORALITY 


CHARACTERS 

Giolla  na  Naomh  (“the  Servant 
of  the  Saints"  ’) , a Little  Boy 
Boys 

An  Abbot 

Monks 

A King 

Heroes 

Gillies 

Women 

PLACE — An  ancient  monastery 


THE  KING 

A green  before  the  monastery . The  voices 
of  monks  are  heard  chanting . Through  the 

chanting  breaks  the  sound  op  a trumpet.  A 
little  boy  runs  out  from  the  monastery  and 
stands  on  the  green  looking  in  the  direction 
whence  the  trumpet  has  spoken . 

The  Boy.  Conall,  Diarmaid,  Giolla  na  ,,  K 
Naomh  ! 

The  voices  of  other  boys  answer  him. 

First  Boy.  There  is  a host  marching  f 
from  the  North. 

Second  Boy.  Where  is  it?  ‘ ^ 

First  Boy.  See  it  beneath  you  in  the 
glen. 

Third  Boy.  It  is  the  King’s  host. 

Fourth  Boy.  The  King  is  going  to 
battle. 

The  trumpet  speaks  again , nearer.  The 
boys  go  upon  the  rampart  of  the  monastery. 

The  murmur  of  a marching  host  is  heard. 

First  Boy.  I see  the  horses  and  the 
riders. 


47 


THE  KING 

Second  Boy.  I see  the  swords  and  the 
spears. 

Fourth  Boy.  I see  the  standards  and 
the  banners. 

Third  Boy.  I see  the  King’s  banner. 

Fourth  Boy.  I see  the  King  ! 

First  Boy.  Which  of  them  is  the 
King  ? 

Fourth  Boy.  The  tall  comely  man  on 
the  black  horse. 

Giolla  na  Naomh.  Let  us  salute  the 
Ring. 

The  Boys  ( with  the  voice  of  one).  Take 
victory  in  battle  and  slaying,  O King  ! 

The  voices  af  warriors  are  heard  ac- 
claiming the  King  as  the  host  marches  past 

with  din  of  weapons  and  music  of  trumpet 

and  pipes . Silence  succeeds. 

First  Boy.  I would  like  to  be  a King. 

Giolla  na  Naomh.  Why  ? 

First  Boy.  The  King  has  gold  and 
silver. 

Second  Boy.  He  has  noble  jewels  in  his 
jewel-house. 

Third  Boy.  He  has  slender  steeds  and 
gallant  hounds. 

48 


THE  KING 


Fourth  Boy.  He  has  a keen-edged,  gold- 
hiked  sword  and  a mighty-shafted,  blue- 
headed spear  and  a glorious  red-emblazoned 
shield.  I saw  him  once  in  my  father’s 
house. 

First  Boy.  What  was  he  like  ? 

Fourth  Boy.  He  was  tall  and  noble. 
He  was  strong  and  broad-shouldered.  He 
had  long  fair  hair.  He  had  a comely 
proud  face.  He  had  two  piercing  grey 
eyes.  A white  vest  of  satin  next  his  skin. 
A very  beautiful  red  tunic,  with  a white 
hood,  upon  his  body.  A royal  mantle  of 
purple  about  him.  Seven  colours  upon  him, 
between  vest  and  tunic  and  hood  and  mantle. 
A silver  brooch  upon  his  breast.  A kingly 
diadem  upon  his  head,  and  the  colour  of 
gold  upon  it.  Two  great  wings  rising 
above  his  head,  as  white  as  the  two  wings  of 
a sea-gull  and  as  broad  as  the  two  wings  of  an 
eagle.  He  was  a gallant  man. 

Second  Boy.  And  what  was  the  look  of 
his  face  ? 

Third  Boy.  Did  he  look  angry,  stern  ? 

Fourth  Boy.  He  did,  at  times. 

First  Boy.  Had  he  a laughing  look  ? 

Fourth  Boy.  He  laughed  only  once. 

49 


E 


THE  KING 


Second  Boy.  How  did  he  look  mostly  ? 
Stern  or  laughing  ? 

Fourth  Boy.  He  looked  sorrowful.  When 
he  was  talking  to  the  kings  and  the  heroes 
he  had  an  angry  and  a laughing  look  every 
second  while,  but  when  he  was  silent  he 
was  sorrowful. 

First  Boy.  What  sorrow  can  he  have  ? 

Fourth  Boy.  I do  not  know.  The 
thousands  he  has  slain,  perhaps. 

Second  Boy.  The  churches  he  has 
plundered. 

Third  Boy.  The  battles  he  has  lost. 

Giolla  na  Naomh.  Alas,  the  poor  King  ! 

Second  Boy.  You  would  not  like  to  be 
a King,  Giolla  na  Naomh  ? 

Giolla  na  Naomh.  I would  not.  I would 
rather  be  a monk  that  I might  pray  for  the 
King. 

Fourth  Boy.  I may  have  the  kingship 
of  this  country  when  I am  a man,  for  my 
father  is  of  the  royal  blood. 

Second  Boy.  And  my  father  is  of  the 
royal  blood,  too. 

Third  Boy.  Aye,  and  mine. 

Fourth  Boy.  I will  not  let  the  kingdom 
go  with  either  of  you.  It  is  mine  ! 

5° 


THE  KING 


Second  Boy.  It  is  not,  but  mine 
Third  Boy.  It  matters  not  whose  it  is, 
for  I will  have  it ! 

Second  Boy.  No,  nor  anyone  of  your 
house  ! 

Fourth  Boy  [seizing  a switch  of  sally  and 
brandishing  it).  I will  ply  the  venom  of  my 
sword  upon  you  ! I will  defend  my  king- 
dom against  my  enemies  ! Giolla  na 
Naomh,  pray  for  the  King  ! 

A bell  sounds  from  the  monastery. 
Giolla  na  Naomh.  The  bell  is  ringing. 

The  people  of  the  monastery  come  upon 
the  green  in  ones  and  twos , the  Abbot  last. 
The  boys  gather  a little  apart.  Distant 
sounds  of  battle  are  heard. 

The  Abbot.  My  children,  the  King  is 
giving  battle  to  his  foes. 

First  Monk.  This  King  has  lost  every 
battle  into  which  he  has  gone  up  to  this. 

The  Abbot.  In  a vision  that  I saw  last 
night  as  I knelt  before  my  God  it  was  re- 
vealed to  me  that  the  battle  will  be  broken 
on  the  King  again. 

Second  Monk.  My  grief ! 

Third  Monk.  My  grief  ! 

5 1 


THE  KING 


First  Monk.  Tell  us,  Father,  the  cause 
of  these  unnumbered  defeats. 

The  Abbot.  Do  you  think  that  an  offer- 
ing will  be  accepted  from  polluted  hands  ? 
This  King  has  shed  the  blood  of  the 
innocent.  He  has  made  spoils  and  forays. 
He  has  oppressed  the  poor.  He  has  for- 
saken the  friendship  of  God  and  made 
friends  with  evil-doers. 

First  Monk.  That  is  true.  Yet  it  is  a 
good  fight  that  the  King  fights  now,  for  he 
gives  battle  for  his  people. 

The  Abbot.  It  is  an  angel  that  should 
be  sent  to  pour  out  the  wine  and  to  break 
the  bread  of  this  sacrifice.  Not  by  an 
unholy  King  should  the  noble  wine  that 
is  in  the  veins  of  good  heroes  be  spilt ; 
not  at  the  behest  of  a guilty  king  should 
fair  bodies  be  mangled.  I say  to  you  that 
the  offering  will  not  be  accepted. 

First  Monk.  And  are  all  guilty  of  the 
sins  of  the  King  ? If  the  King  is  defeated 
it’s  grief  will  be  for  all.  Why  must  all 
suffer  for  the  sins  of  the  King  ? On  the 
King  the  eric  ! 

The  Abbot.  The  nation  is  guilty  of  the 
sins  of  its  princes.  I say  to  you  that  this 

52 


THE  KING 


nation  shall  not  be  freed  until  it  chooses  for 
itself  a righteous  King. 

Second  Monk.  Where  shall  a righteous 
King  be  found  ? 

The  Abbot.  I do  not  know,  unless  he 
be  found  among  these  little  boys. 

The  boys  have  drawn  near  and  are 
gathered  about  the  Abbot . 

First  Monk.  And  shall  the  people  be  in 
bondage  until  these  little  lads  are  fit  for 
battle  ? It  is  not  the  King’s  case  I pity, 
but  the  case  of  the  people.  I heard  women 
mourning  last  night.  Shall  women  be 
mourning  in  this  land  till  doom  ? 

Third  Monk.  As  I went  out  from  the 
monastery  yesterday  there  was  a dead  man 
on  the  verge  of  the  wood.  Battle  is  terrible. 

Second  Monk.  No,  battle  is  glorious  ! 
While  we  were  singing  our  None  but 
now,  Father,  I heard,  through  the  psalmody 
of  the  brethren,  the  voice  of  a trumpet. 
My  heart  leaped,  and  I would  fain  have 
risen  from  the  place  where  I was  and  gone 
after  that  gallant  music.  I should  not  have 
cared  though  it  were  to  my  death  I went. 

The  Abbot.  That  is  the  voice  of  a young 
man.  The  old  wait  for  death,  but  the 

53 


THE  KING 


young  go  to  meet  it.  If  into  this  quiet 
place,  where  monks  chant  and  children  play, 
there  were  to  come  from  yonder  battle- 
field a bloodstained  man,  calling  upon  all 
to  follow  him  into  the  battle-press,  there  is 
none  here  that  would  not  rise  and  follow 
him,  but  I myself  and  the  old  brother  that 
rings  our  bell.  There  is  none  of  you, 
young  brothers,  no,  nor  any  of  these  little 
lads,  that  would  not  rise  from  me  and  go 
into  the  battle.  That  music  of  the  fighters 
makes  drunk  the  hearts  of  young  men. 

Second  Monk.  It  is  good  for  young  men 
to  be  made  drunk. 

First  Monk.  Brother,  you  speak  wicked- 
ness. 

The  Abbot.  There  is  a heady  ale  which 
all  young  men  should  drink,  for  he  who 
has  not  been  made  drunk  with  it  has  not 
lived.  It  is  with  that  ale  that  God  makes 
drunk  the  hearts  of  the  saints.  I would  not 
forbid  you  your  intoxication,  O young  men  ! 

First  Monk.  This  is  not  plain,  Father. 

The  Abbot.  Do  you  think  if  that  terrible, 
beautiful  voice  for  which  young  men  strain 
their  ears  were  to  speak  from  yon  place 
where  the  fighters  are,  and  the  horses,  and 

54 


THE  KING 


the  music,  that  I would  stay  you,  did  ye 
rise  to  obey  it  ? Do  you  think  I would 
grudge  any  of  you  ? Do  you  think  I would 
grudge  the  dearest  of  these  little  boys,  to 
death  calling  with  that  terrible,  beautiful 
voice  ? I would  let  you  all  go,  though  I and 
the  old  brother  should  be  very  lonely  here. 

Second  Boy.  Giolla  na  Naomh  would 
not  go,  Father. 

The  Abbot.  Why  do  you  say  that  ? 

Second  Boy.  He  said  that  he  would 
rather  be  a monk. 

The  Abbot.  Would  you  not  go  into 
the  battle,  Giolla  na  Naomh  ? 

Giolla  na  Naomh.  I would.  I would 
go  as  a gilly  to  the  King,  that  I might  serve 
him  when  all  would  forsake  him. 

The  Abbot.  But  it  is  to  the  saints  you  are 
gilly,  Giolla  na  Naomh,  and  not  to  the  King. 

Giolla  na  Naomh.  It  were  not  much  for 
the  poor  King  to  have  one  little  gilly  that 
would  not  forsake  him  when  the  battle  would 
be  broken  on  him  and  all  forsaking  him. 

The  Abbot.  This  child  is  right.  While 
we  think  of  glory  he  thinks  of  service. 

An  outcry  as  of  grief  and  dismay  is  heard 
from  the  battlefield . 

55 


THE  KING 

First  Monk.  I fear  me  that  the  King  is 
beaten  ! 

The  Abbot.  Go  upon  the  rampart  and 
tell  us  what  you  see. 

First  Monk  (having  gone  upon  the  ram- 
part).  A man  comes  towards  us  in  flight. 

Second  Monk.  What  manner  of  man  is 
he  ? 

First  Monk.  A bloodstained  man,  all 
spent,  his  feet  staggering  and  stumbling 
under  him. 

Second  Monk.  Is  he  a man  of  the  King’s 
people  ? 

First  Monk.  He  is. 

A soldier  comes  upon  the  green  all  spent . 

The  Soldier.  The  King  is  beaten  ! 

The  Monks.  My  sorrow,  my  sorrow  ! 

The  Soldier.  The  King  is  beaten,  I say 
to  you  ! O ye  of  the  books  and  the  bells, 
small  was  your  help  to  us  in  the  hard  battle  ! 
The  King  is  beaten  ! 

The  Abbot.  Where  is  the  King? 

The  Soldier.  He  is  flying. 

The  Abbot.  Give  us  the  description  of 
the  battle. 

The  Soldier.  I cannot  speak.  Let  a 
drink  be  given  to  me. 

56 


THE  KING 

The  Abbot.  Let  a drink  be  given  to  this 
man. 

The  little  hoy  who  is  called  Giolla  na 
Naomh  gives  him  a drink  of  water . 

The  Abbot.  Speak  to  us  now  and  give 
us  the  description  of  the  battle. 

The  Soldier.  Each  man  of  us  was  a 
fighter  of  ten.  The  King  was  a fighter  of 
a hundred.  But  what  availed  us  ourvalour  ? 
We  were  beaten  and  we  fled.  Hundreds 
lie  sole  to  sole  on  the  lea. 

The  Monks.  My  sorrow  ! My  sorrow  ! 

A din  grows . 

Second  Monk.  Who  comes? 

First  Monk.  The  King  ! 

Riders  and  gillies  come  upon  the  green  pell- 
mell , the  King  in  their  midst.  The  King 
goes  upon  his  knees  before  the  Abbot , and 
throws  his  sword  upon  the  ground . 

The  King.  Give  me  your  curse,  O man 
of  God,  and  let  me  go  to  my  death  ! I am 
beaten.  My  people  are  beaten.  Ten  battles 
have  I fought  against  my  foes,  and  every 
battle  of  them  has  been  broken  on  me.  It 
is  I who  have  brought  God’s  wrath  upon 
this  land.  Ask  your  God  not  to  wreak  his 

57 


THE  KING 


anger  on  my  people  henceforth,  but  to 
wreak  it  on  me.  Have  pity  on  my  people, 

0 man  of  God  ! 

The  Abbot.  God  will  have  pity  on  them. 
The  King.  God  has  forsaken  me. 

The  Abbot.  You  have  forsaken  God. 
The  King.  God  has  forsaken  my  people. 
The  Abbot.  He  has  not,  neither  will  He. 
He  will  save  this  nation  if  it  choose  a 
righteous  King. 

The  King.  Give  it  then  a righteous 
King.  Give  it  one  of  your  monks  or  one 
of  these  little  lads  to  be  its  King.  The 
battle  on  your  protection,  O man  of  God  ! 

The  Abbot.  Not  so,  but  on  the  protec- 
tion of  the  sword  of  a righteous  King. 
Speak  to  me,  my  children,  and  tell  me  who 
among  you  is  the  most  righteous  ? 

First  Monk.  I have  sinned. 

Second  Monk.  And  I. 

Third  Monk.  Father,  we  have  all  sinned. 
The  Abbot.  I,  too,  have  sinned.  All 
that  are  men  have  sinned.  How  soon  we 
exchange  the  wisdom  of  children  for  the 
folly  of  men  ! O wise  children,  busy  with 
your  toys  while  we  are  busy  with  our  sins ! 

1 see  clearly  now.  I shall  find  a sinless 

53 


THE  KING 


King  among  these  little  boys.  Speak  to 
me,  boys,  and  tell  me  who  is  most  innocent 
among  you  ? 

The  Boys  (with  one  voice).  Giolla  na 
Naomh. 

The  Abbot.  The  little  lad  that  waits 
upon  all  ! Ye  are  right.  The  last  shall  be 
first.  Giolla  na  Naomh,  will  you  be  King 
over  this  nation  ? 

Giolla  na  Naomh.  I am  too  young, 
Father,  I am  too  weak. 

The  Abbot.  Come  hither  to  me,  child. 
( The  child  goes  over  to  him.)  O fosterling  that 
I have  nourished,  if  I ask  this  thing  of  you, 
will  you  not  do  it  ? 

Giolla  na  Naomh.  I will  be  obedient 
to  you,  Father. 

The  Abbot.  Will  you  turn  your  face 
into  the  battle  ? 

Giolla  na  Naomh.  I will  do  the  duty 
of  a King. 

The  Abbot.  Little  one,  it  may  be  that 
your  death  will  come  of  it. 

Giolla  na  Naomh.  Welcome  is  death 
if  it  be  appointed  to  me. 

The  Abbot.  Did  I not  say  that  the 
young  seek  death  ? They  are  spendthrift 

59 


THE  KING 


of  all  that  we  hoard  jealously  ; they  pursue 
all  that  we  shun.  The  terrible,  beautiful 
voice  has  spoken  to  this  child.  O herald 
death,  you  shall  be  answered  ! I will  not 
grudge  you  my  fosterling. 

The  King.  Abbot,  I will  fight  my  own 
battles : no  child  shall  die  for  me  ! 

The  Abbot.  You  have  given  me  your 
sword,  and  I give  it  to  this  child.  God 
has  spoken  through  the  voice  of  His  ancient 
herald,  the  terrible,  beautiful  voice  that 
comes  out  of  the  heart  of  battles. 

Giolla  na  Naomh.  Let  me  do  this 
little  thing,  King.  I will  guard  your  banner 
well.  I will  bring  you  back  your  sword 
after  the  battle.  I am  only  your  little  gilly, 
who  watches  while  the  tired  King  sleeps. 
I will  sleep  to-night  while  you  shall  watch. 

The  King.  My  pity,  my  three  pities! 

Giolla  na  Naomh.  We  slept  last  night 
while  you  were  marching  through  the  dark 
country.  Poor  King,  your  marchings  have 
been  long.  My  march  will  be  very  short. 

The  Abbot.  Let  this  gentle  asking  pre- 
vail with  you,  King.  I say  to  you  that 
God  has  spoken. 

The  King.  I do  not  understand  your  God. 

66 


THE  KING 


The  Abbot.  Who  understands  Him  ? He 
demands  not  understanding,  but  obedience. 
This  child  is  obedient,  and  because  he  is 
obedient,  God  will  do  mighty  things  through 
him.  King,  you  must  yield  to  this. 

The  King.  I yield,  I yield ! Woe  is 
me  that  I did  not  fall  in  yonder  onset ! 

The  Abbot.  Let  this  child  be  stripped 
... v*>vy;  r t r*  i rr 

that  the  raiment  or  a King  may  be  put 

about  him.  ( The  child  is  stripped  of  his 

clothing.)  Let  a royal  vest  be  put  next  the 

skin  of  the  child.  ( A royal  vest  is  put  upon 

him.)  Let  a royal  tunic  be  put  about  him. 

(A  royal  tuiiic  is  put  about  him  above  the  vest , 

and  sandals  upon  his  feet.)  Let  the  royal 

mantle  be  put  about  him.  ( The  King  takes 

of  the  royal  mantle  and  it  is  put  upon  the  child.) 

Let  a royal  diadem  be  put  upon  his  head. 

( The  King  takes  off  the  royal  diadem  and  it  is 

put  upon  the  child' s head.)  Let  him  be  given 

the  shield  of  the  King.  ( The  shieldbearer 

holds  up  the  shield.)  A blessing  on  this 

shield  ! May  it  be  firm  against  foes  ! 

The  Heroes.  A blessing  on  this  shield! 

The  shield  is  put  on  the  child' s left  arm. 

The  Abbot.  Let  him  be  given  the  spear 
of  the  King.  ( The  spearbearer  comes  forward 

61 


THE  KING 


and  holds  up  the  spear.)  A blessing  on  this 
spear  ! May  it  be  sharp  against  foes  ! 

The  Heroes.  A blessing  on  this  spear  ! 

The  Abbot.  Let  him  be  given  the  sword 
of  the  King.  ( The  King  lifts  his  sword  and 
girds  it  round  the  child'' s waist . Giolla  na 

Naomh  draws  the  sword  and  holds  it  in  his  right 
hand.)  A blessing  on  this  sword  ! May  it 
be  hard  to  smite  foes  ! 

The  Heroes.  A blessing  on  this  sword! 

The  Abbot.  I call  this  little  lad  King, 
and  I put  the  battle  under  his  protection  in 
the  name  of  God. 

The  King  ( kneeling  before  the  boy).  I do 
homage  to  thee,  O King,  and  I put  the 
battle  under  thy  protection. 

The  Heroes,  Monks,  Boys,  etc.  (kneeling). 
We  do  homage  to  thee,  O King,  and  we 
put  the  battle  under  thy  protection. 

Giolla  na  Naomh.  I undertake  to 
sustain  the  battle  in  the  name  of  God. 

The  Abbot.  Let  a steed  be  brought  him. 
(. A steed  is  brought .)  Let  the  banner  of  the 

King  be  unfurled.  (The  banner  is  unfurled.) 
Turn  thy  face  to  the  battle,  O King  ! 

Giolla  na  Naomh  (kneeling).  Bless  me, 
Father. 


62 


THE  KING 


The  Abbot.  A blessing  on  thee,  little  one. 
The  Heroes,  etc.  (with  one  voice).  Take 
victory  in  battle  and  slaying,  O King. 

The  little  King  mounts , and , with  the 
heroes  and  soldiers  and  gillies , rides  to  the 
battle.  The  Abbot , the  King , the  Monks , 
and  the  Boys  watch  the  in. 

The  Abbot.  King,  I have  given  you  the 
noblest  jewel  that  was  in  my  house.  I 
loved  yonder  child. 

The  King.  Priest,  I have  never  received 
from  my  tributary  kings  a kinglier  gift. 

First  Monk.  They  have  reached  the 
place  of  battle. 

The  Abbot.  O strong  God,  make  strong 
the  hand  of  this  child.  Make  firm  his  foot. 
Make  keen  his  sword.  Let  the  purity  of 
his  heart  and  the  humbleness  of  his  spirit  be 
unto  him  a magnifying  of  courage  and  an 
exaltation  of  mind.  Ye  angels  that  fou  ght 
the  ancient  battles,  ye  veterans  of  God, 
make  a battle-pen  about  him  and  fight  before 
him  with  flaming  swords. 

The  Monks  and  Boys.  Amen,  Amen. 
The  Abbot.  O God,  save  this  nation  by 
the  sword  of  the  sinless  boy. 

The  King.  And  O Christ,  that  was 

63 


THE  KING 


crucified  on  the  hill,  bring  the  child  safe 
from  the  perilous  battle. 

The  Abbot.  King,  King,  freedom  is  not 
purchased  but  with  a great  price.  [A 
trumpet  speaks .)  Let  the  description  of  the 

battle  be  given  us. 

The  First  Monk  and  the  Second  Monk  go 
upon  the  rampart . 

First  Monk.  The  two  hosts  are  face  to 
face.  Another  trumpet  speaks . 

Second  Monk.  That  is  sweet  ! It  is  the 
trumpet  of  the  King  ! Shouts. 

First  Monk.  The  King’s  host  raises 
shouts.  Other  shouts. 

Second  Monk.  The  enemy  answers  them. 

First  Monk.  The  hosts  advance  against 
each  other. 

Second  Monk.  They  fight. 

First  Monk.  Our  people  are  yielding. 

Third  Monk.  Say  not  so. 

Second  Monk.  My  grief,  they  are 
yielding.  A trumpet  speaks. 

Third  Monk.  Sweet  again  ! It  is  timely 
spoken,  O trumpet  of  the  King  ! 

First  Monk.  The  King’s  banner  is  going 
into  the  battle  ! 

Second  Monk.  I see  the  little  King ! 

64 


THE  KING 


Third  Monk.  Is  he  going  into  the  battle  ? 

First  Monk.  Yes. 

The  Monks  and  Boys  (with  one  voice). 
Take  victory  in  battle  and  slaying,  O King  ! 

Second  Monk.  It  is  a good  fight  now. 

First  Monk.  Two  seas  have  met  on  the 
plain. 

Second  Monk.  Two  raging  seas ! 

First  Monk.  One  sea  rolls  back. 

Second  Monk.  It  is  the  enemy  that 
retreats  ! 

First  Monk.  The  little  King  goes 
through  them. 

Second  Monk.  He  goes  through  them 
like  a hawk  through  small  birds. 

First  Monk.  Yea,  like  a wolf  through  a 
flock  of  sheep  on  a plain. 

Second  Monk.  Like  a torrent  through  a 
mountain  gap. 

First  Monk.  It  is  a road  of  rout  before 
him. 

Second  Monk.  There  are  great  uproars 
in  the  battle.  It  is  a roaring  path  down 
which  the  King  rides.  yj- 

First  Monk.  O golden  head  above  the 
slaughter  ! O shining,  terrible  sword  of  the 
King! 


65 


F 


THE  KING 


Second  Monk.  The  enemy  flies ! 

First  Monk.  They  are  beaten  ! They 
are  beaten  ! It  is  a red  road  of  rout ! Raise 
shouts  of  exultation  ! 

Second  Monk.  My  grief! 

First  Monk.  My  grief!  My  grief! 

The  Abbot.  What  is  that  ? 

First  Monk.  The  little  King  is  down! 

The  Abbot.  Has  he  the  victory  ? 

First  Monk.  Yes,  but  he  himself  is 
down.  I do  not  see  his  golden  head.  I 
do  not  see  his  shining  sword.  My  grief! 
They  raise  his  body  from  the  plain. 

The  Abbot.  Is  the  enemy  flying  ? 

Second  Monk.  Yes,  they  fly.  They 
are  pursued.  They  are  scattered.  They 
are  scattered  as  a mist  would  be  scattered. 
They  are  no  longer  seen  on  the  plain. 

The  Abbot.  It’s  thanks  to  God  ! ( Keening 
is  heard.)  Thou  hast  been  answered,  O 
terrible  voice  ! Old  herald,  my  foster  child 
has  answered ! 

Third  Monk. They  bear  hithera  dead  child. 

The  King.  He  said  that  he  would  sleep 
to-night  and  that  I should  watch. 

Heroes  come  upon  the  green  bearing  the 

body  of  Giolla  na  Naomh  on  a bier  ; there 

66 


THE  KING 


are  women  keening  it.  The  bier  is  laid  in 
the  centre  of  the  green . 

The  King.  He  has  brought  me  back  my 
sword.  He  has  guarded  my  banner  well. 

The  Abbot  ( lifting  the  sword  from  the 
bier).  Take  the  sword. 

The  King.  No,  I will  let  him  keep  it. 
A King  should  sleep  with  a sword.  This 
was  a very  valiant  King.  (He  takes  the 
sword  from  the  Abbot  and  lays  it  again  upon 
the  bier . He  kneels.)  I do  homage  to  thee, 
O dead  King,  O victorious  child ! I kiss 
thee,  O white  body,  since  it  is  thy  purity 
that  hath  redeemed  my  people.  (He  kisses 
the  forehead  of  Giolla  na  Naomh.  They 
commence  to  keen  again.) 

The  Abbot.  Do  not  keen  this  child,  for 
he  hath  purchased  freedom  for  his  people. 
Let  shouts  of  exultation  be  raised  and  let  a 
canticle  be  sung  in  praise  of  God. 

The  body  is  borne  into  the  monastery  with 
a Te  Deum. 


THE  SCENE  CLOSES. 


6 7 


THE  MASTER 


CHARACTERS 


Ciaran,  the  Master 
Pupils  : 

IoLLANN  BEAG 
Art 
Breasal 
Maine 
Ronan 
Ceallach 
Daire,  the  King 
Messenger 

The  Archangel  Michael 


THE  MASTER 


A little  cloister  in  a woodland . The 

subdued  sunlight  of  a forest  place  comes 
through  the  arches . On  the  left , one  arch 
gives  a longer  vista  where  the  forest  opens 
and  the  sun  shines  upon  a far  hill.  In 
the  centre  of  the  cloister  two  or  three  steps 
lead  to  an  inner  place , as  it  were  a little 
chapel  or  cell . 

Art,  Breasal,  and  Maine  are  busy  with 
a game  of  jackstones  about  the  steps . They 

play  silently . 

Ronan  enters  from  the  left . 

Ronan.  Where  is  the  Master? 

Art.  He  has  not  left  his  cell  yet. 

Ronan.  He  is  late.  Who  is  with  him, Art  ? 
Art.  I was  with  him  till  a while  ago. 
When  he  had  finished  his  thanksgiving  he 
told  me  he  had  one  other  little  prayer  to 
say  which  he  could  not  leave  over.  He 
said  it  was  for  a soul  that  was  in  danger.  I 
left  him  on  his  knees  and  came  out  into  the 
sunshine. 


7* 


THE  MASTER 


Maine.  Aye,  you  knew  that  Breasal  and 
I were  here  with  the  jackstones. 

Breasal.  I served  his  Mass  yesterday,  and 
he  stayed  praying  so  long  after  it  that  I fell 
asleep.  I did  not  stir  till  he  laid  his  hand 
upon  my  shoulder.  Then  I started  up  and 
said  I,  “Is  that  you,  little  mother?”  He 
laughed  and  said  he,  “No,  Breasal,  it’s  no 
one  so  good  as  your  mother.” 

Ronan.  He  is  merry  and  gentle  this 
while  back,  although  he  prays  and  fasts 
longer  than  he  used  to.  Little  Iollann  says 
he  tells  him  the  merriest  stories. 

Breasal..  He  is  fond  of  little  Iollann. 

Maine.  Aye ; when  Iollann  is  late,  or 
when  he  is  inattentive,  the  Master  pretends 
not  to  notice  it. 

Breasal.  Well,  Iollann  is  only  a little 
lad. 

Maine.  He  is  more  like  a little  maid, 
with  his  fair  cheek  that  reddens  when  the 
Master  speaks  to  him. 

Art.  Faith,  you  wouldn’t  call  him  a 
little  maid  when  you’d  see  him  strip  to 
swim  a river. 

Ronan.  Or  when  you’d  see  him  spring 
up  to  meet  the  ball  in  a hurley  match. 

72 


THE  MASTER 

Maine.  He  has,  certainly,  many  accom- 
plishments. 

Breasal.  He  has  a high,  manly  heart. 

Maine.  He  has  a beautiful  white  body, 
and,  therefore,  you  all  love  him  ; aye,  the 
Master  and  all.  We  have  no  woman  here 
and  so  we  make  love  to  our  little  Iollann. 

Ronan  {laughing).  Why,  I thrashed  him 
ere-yesterday  for  putting  magories  down  my 
neck  ! 

Maine.  Men  sometimes  thrash  their 
women,  Ronan.  It  is  one  of  the  ways  of 
loving. 

Art.  Maine,  you  have  been  listening  to 
some  satirist  making  satires.  There  was 
once  a Maine  that  was  called  Maine  Honey- 
mouth.  You  will  be  called  Maine  Bitter- 
Tongue. 

Maine.  Well,  I’ve  won  this  game  of 
jackstones.  Will  you  play  another  ? 

Ceallach  {enters  hastily ).  Lads,  do  you 
know  what  I have  seen  ? 

Art.  What  is  it,  Ceallach  ? 

Ceallach.  A host  of  horsemen  riding 
through  the  dark  of  the  wood.  A grim 
host,  with  spears. 

Maine.  The  King  goes  hunting. 

73 


THE  MASTER 


Ceallach.  My  grief  for  the  noble  deer 
that  the  King  hunts  ! 

Breasal.  What  deer  is  that  ? 

Ceallach.  Our  Master,  Ciaran. 

Ronan.  I heard  one  of  the  captains  say 
that  the  cell  was  to  be  surrounded. 

Art.  But  why  does  the  King  come 
against  Ciaran  ? 

Ceallach.  It  is  the  Druids  that  have 
incited  him.  They  say  that  Ciaran  is  over- 
turning the  ancient  law  of  the  people. 

Maine.  The  King  has  ordered  him  to 
leave  the  country. 

Breasal.  Aye,  there  was  a King’s  Mes- 
senger here  the  other  day  who  spoke  long 
to  the  Master. 

Art.  It  is  since  then  that  the  Master 
has  been  praying  so  long  every  day. 

Ronan.  Is  he  afraid  that  the  King  will 
kill  him  ? 

Art.  No,  it  is  for  a soul  that  is  in  danger 
that  he  prays.  Is  it  the  King’s  soul  that 
is  in  danger  ? 

Maine.  Hush,  the  Master  is  coming. 

Ciaran  ( comes  out  from  the  inner  place ; 
the  pupils  rise).  Are  all  here? 

Breasal.  Iollann  Beag  has  not  come  yet. 

74 


THE  MASTER 


Ciaran.  Not  yet? 

Ceallach.  Master,  the  King’s  horsemen 
are  in  the  wood. 

Ciaran.  I hope  no  evil  has  chanced  to 
little  Iollann. 

Maine.  What  evil  could  chance  to  him  ? 

Ceallach.  Master,  the  King  is  seeking 
you  in  the  wood. 

Ciaran.  Does  he  not  know  where  my 
cell  is  ? 

Breasal.  The  King  has  been  stirred  up 
against  you,  Master,  rise  and  fly  before  the 
horsemen  surround  the  cell. 

Ciaran.  No,  if  the  King  seeks  me  he 
will  find  me  here.  ...  I wish  little 
Iollann  were  come.  ( The  voice  of  Iollann 
Beag  is  heard  singing . All  listen .)  That  is 
his  voice. 

Art.  He  always  comes  singing. 

Maine.  Aye,  he  sings  profane  songs  in 
the  very  church  porch. 

Ronan.  Which  is  as  bad  as  if  one 
were  to  play  with  jackstones  on  the  church 
steps. 

Ciaran.  I am  glad  little  Iollann  has 
come  safe. 

Iollann  Beag  comes  into  the  cloister  singing . 

75 


THE  MASTER 


IoLLANN  Be  AG  (sWgs). 

We  watch  the  wee  ladybird  fly  far  away, 
With  an  oro  and  an  iero  and  an  umbo  ero. 

Art.  Hush,  Iollann.  You  are  in  God’s 

Iollann  Beag.  Does  God  not  like  music? 
Why  then  did  he  make  the  finches  and  the 
chafers  ? 

Maine.  Your  song  is  profane. 

Iollann  Beag.  I didn’t  know. 

Ciaran.  Nay,  Maine,  no  song  is  profane 
unless  there  be  profanity  in  the  heart.  But 
why  do  you  come  so  late,  Iollann  Beag? 

Iollann  Beag.  There  was  a high  oak 
tree  that  I had  never  climbed.  I went  up 
to  its  top,  and  swung  myself  to  the  top  of 
the  next  tree.  I saw  the  tops  of  all  the 
trees  like  the  green  waves  of  the  sea. 

Ciaran.  Little  truant ! 

Iollann  Beag.  I am  sorry,  Master. 

Ciaran.  Nay,  I am  not  vext  with  you. 
But  you  must  not  climb  tall  trees  again  at 
lesson  time.  We  have  been  waiting  for 
you.  Let  us  begin  our  lesson,  lads. 

He  sits  down . 

Ceallach.  Dear  Master,  I ask  you  to  fly 

76 


THE  MASTER 

from  this  place  ere  the  King’s  horsemen 
close  you  in. 

Ciaran.  My  boy,  you  must  not  tempt 
me.  He  is  a sorry  champion  who  forsakes 
his  place  of  battle.  This  is  my  place  of  battle. 
You  would  not  have  me  do  a coward  thing? 

Art.  But  the  King  has  many  horsemen. 
It  is  not  cowardly  for  one  to  fly  before  a 
host. 

Ciaran.  Has  not  the  high  God  captains 
and  legions  ? What  are  the  King’s  horse- 
men to  the  heavenly  riders? 

Ceallach.  O my  dear  Master  ! — 

Ronan.  Let  be,  Ceallach.  You  cannot 
move  him. 

Ciaran.  Of  what  were  we  to  speak 
to-day  ? They  have  sat  down  around  him. 

Art.  You  said  you  would  speak  of  the 
friends  of  Our  Lord. 

Ciaran.  Aye,  I would  speak  of  friendship 
and  kindly  fellowship.  Is  it  not  a sad  thing 
that  every  good  fellowship  is  broken  up  ? 
No  league  that  is  made  among  men  has  more 
than  its  while,  its  little,  little  while.  Even 
that  little  league  of  twelve  in  Galilee  was 
broken  full  soon.  The  shepherd  was  struck 
and  the  sheep  of  the  flock  scattered.  The 

77 


THE  MASTER 


hardest  thing  Our  dear  Lord  had  to  bear 
was  the  scattering  of  His  friends. 

Iollann  Beag.  Were  none  faithful  to 
Him? 

Ciaran.  One  man  only  and  a few  women. 

Iollann  Beag.  Who  was  the  man  ? 

Ceallach.  I know  ! It  was  John,  the 
disciple  that  He  loved. 

Ciaran.  Aye,  John  of  the  Bosom  they 
call  him,  for  he  was  Iosa’s  bosom  friend. 
Can  you  tell  me  the  names  of  any  others  of 
His  friends? 

Art.  There  was  James,  his  brother. 

Ronan.  There  was  Lazarus,  for  whom 
He  wept. 

Breasal.  There  was  Mary,  the  poor 
woman  that  loved  Him. 

Maine.  There  was  her  sister  Martha,  who 
busied  herself  to  make  Him  comfortable ; 
and  the  other  Mary. 

Ceallach.  Mary  and  Martha  ; but  that 
other  Mary  is  only  a name. 

Ciaran.  Nay,  she  was  the  mother  of  the 
sons  of  Zebedee.  She  stands  for  all  lowly, 
hidden  women,  all  the  nameless  women  of 
the  world  who  are  just  the  mothers  of  their 
children.  And  so  we  name  her  one  of  the 

78 


THE  MASTER 


three  great  Marys,  with  poor  Mary  that 
sinned,  and  with  Mary  of  the  Sorrows,  the 
greatest  of  the  Marys.  What  other  friends 
can  you  tell  me  of? 

Iollann  Beag.  There  was  John  the  Bap- 
tist, His  little  playmate. 

Ciaran.  That  is  well  said.  Those  two 
Johns  were  good  comrades  to  Iosa. 

Ronan.  There  was  Thomas. 

Ciaran.  Poor,  doubting  Thomas.  I am 
glad  you  did  not  leave  him  out. 

Maine.  There  was  Judas  who  betrayed 
Him. 

Art.  There  was  Peter  who  — 

Iollann  Beag.  Aye,  good  Peter  of  the 
Sword  ! 

Ciaran.  Nay,  Iollann,  it  is  Paul  that 
carries  a sword. 

Iollann  Beag.  Peter  should  have  a sword, 
too.  I will  not  have  him  cheated  of  his 
sword  ! It  was  a good  blow  he  struck  ! 

Breasal.  Yet  the  Lord  rebuked  him  for  it. 

Iollann  Beag.  The  Lord  did  wrong  to 
rebuke  him.  He  was  always  down  on 
Peter. 

Ciaran.  Peter  was  fiery,  and  the  Lord 
was  very  gentle. 


79 


THE  MASTER 


Iollann  Beag.  But  when  He  wanted  a 
rock  to  build  His  church  on  He  had  to  go 
to  Peter.  No  John  of  the  Bosom  then,  but 
the  old  swordsman.  Paul  must  yield  his 
sword  to  Peter.  I do  not  like  that  Paul. 

Ciaran.  Paul  said  many  hard  things  and 
many  dark  things.  When  you  understand 
him,  Iollann,  you  will  like  him. 

Maine.  Let  him  not  arrogate  a sword 
merely  because  his  head  was  cut  off,  and 
Iollann  will  tolerate  him. 

Ciaran.  Who  has  brought  me  a poem 
to-day?  You  were  to  bring  me  poems  of 
Christ’s  friends. 

Breasal.  I have  made  a Song  for  Mary 
Magdalene.  Shall  I say  it  to  you? 

Ciaran.  Do,  Breasal. 

Breasal  [chants). 

O woman  of  the  gleaming  hair 

(Wild  hair  that  won  men’s  gaze  to  thee), 
Weary  thou  turnest  from  the  common  stare. 
For  the  shuiler  Christ  is  calling  thee. 

O woman,  of  the  snowy  side, 

Many  a lover  hath  lain  with  thee, 

Yet  left  thee  sad  at  the  morning  tide ; 

But  thy  lover  Christ  shall  comfort  thee. 

80 


THE  MASTER 


O woman  with  the  wild  thing’s  heart, 

Old  sin  hath  set  a snare  for  thee ; 

In  the  forest  ways  forspent  thou  art, 

But  the  hunter  Christ  shall  pity  thee. 

O woman  spendthrift  of  thyself, 

Spendthrift  of  all  the  love  in  thee, 

Sold  unto  sin  for  little  pelf, 

The  captain  Christ  shall  ransom  thee. 

O woman  that  no  lover’s  kiss 

(Tho’  many  a kiss  was  given  thee) 

Could  slake  thy  love,  is  it  not  for  this 
The  hero  Christ  shall  die  for  thee  ? 

Ciaran  That  is  a good  song,  Breasal. 
What  you  have  said  is  true,  that  love  is  a 
very  great  thing.  I do  not  think  faith  will 
be  denied  to  him  that  loves. 

Iollann  was  to  make  me  a song  to-day,  too. 

Iollann  Beag.  I have  made  only  a little 
rann.  I couldn’t  think  of  rhymes  for  a 
big  song. 

Ciarnn  . What  do  you  call  your  rann  ? 

Iollann  Beag.  It  is  the  Rann  of  the 
Little  Playmate.  It  is  a rann  that  John  the 
Baptist  made  when  he  was  on  the  way  to 
losa’s  house  one  day. 

Ciaran.  Sing  it  to  us,  Iollann. 

8 1 


G 


THE  MASTER 


Iollann  (sings)  : 

Young  Iosa  plays  with  me  every  day 
(With  an  oro  and  an  iero) 

Tig  and  Pookeen  and  Hide-in-the-Hay 
(With  an  oro  and  an  iero.) 

We  race  in  the  river  with  otters  gray, 

We  climb  the  tall  trees  where  red  squirrels 
play, 

We  watch  the  wee  lady-bird  fly  far  away, 
(With  an  oro  and  an  iero  and  an  imho  ero). 

A knocking  is  heard . 
Ciaran.  Run  and  open  the  postern, 
Iollann. 

Ceallach.  Master,  this  may  be  the 
King’s  people. 

Ciaran.  If  it  be,  Iollann  will  let  them 
in.  Iollann  Be ag  goes  to  the  door . 

Ceallach.  Why  have  good  men  such 
? 

A King  s Messenger  appears  upon  the 
threshold.  Iollann  Beag  holds  the  curtain  oj 
the  door  while  the  Messenger  speaks . 

The  Messenger.  Who  in  this  house  is 
Ciaran  ? 

Ciaran.  I am  Ciaran. 

82 


THE  MASTER 


The  Messenger.  I bring  you  greeting 
from  the  King. 

Ciaran.  Take  back  to  him  my  greeting. 

The  Messenger.  The  King  has  come  to 
make  the  hunting  of  this  wood. 

Ciaran.  It  is  the  King’s  privilege  to 
hunt  the  woods  of  the  cantred. 

The  Messenger.  Not  far  from  here  is 
a green  glade  of  the  forest  in  which  the 
King  with  his  nobles  and  good  men,  his 
gillies  and  his  runners,  has  sat  down  to  meat. 

Ciaran.  May  it  be  a merry  sitting  for 
them. 

The  Messenger.  It  has  seemed  to  the 
King  an  unroyal  thing  to  taste  of  the  cheer 
of  this  greenwood  while  he  is  at  enmity 
with  you  ; for  he  has  remembered  the  old 
saying  that  friendship  is  more  welcome  at 
meat  than  ale  or  music.  Therefore,  he  has 
sent  me  to  say  to  you  that  he  has  put  all 
enmity  out  of  his  heart,  and  that  in  token 
thereof  he  invites  you  to  share  his  forest 
feast,  such  as  it  is,  you  and  your  pupils. 

Ciaran.  The  King  is  kind.  I would 
like  well  to  come  to  him,  but  my  rule 
forbids  me  to  leave  this  house. 

The  Messenger.  The  King  will  take 

83 


THE  MASTER 


badly  any  refusal.  It  is  not  usual  to  refuse 
a King’s  invitation. 

Ciaran.  When  I came  to  this  place,  after 
journeying  many  long  roads  of  land  and  sea, 
I said  to  myself : “ I will  abide  here  hence- 
forth, this  shall  be  the  sod  of  my  death.” 
And  I made  a vow  to  live  in  this  little 
cloister  alone,  or  with  a few  pupils,  I who 
had  been  restless  and  a wanderer,  and  a 
seeker  after  difficult  things;  the  King  will 
not  grudge  me  the  loneliness  of  my  cloister. 

The  Messenger.  I will  say  all  this  to  the 
King.  These  lads  will  come  with  me? 

Ciaran.  Will  ye  go  to  the  King’sfeast,lads  ? 

Breasal.  May  we  go,  Master. 

Ciaran.  I will  not  gainsay  you. 

Maine.  It  will  be  a great  thing  to  sit  at 
the  King’s  table. 

Ceallach.  Master,  it  may  turn  aside  the 
King’s  displeasure  for  your  not  going  if  we 
go  in  your  name.  We  may,  perchance, 
bring  the  King  here,  and  peace  will  be 
bound  between  you. 

Ciaran.  May  God  be  near  you  in  the 
places  to  which  you  go. 

Ceallach.  I am  loath  to  leave  you  alone. 
Master. 


84 


THE  MASTER 


Ciaran  . Little  Iollann  will  stay  with 
me.  Will  you  not,  little  Iollann. 

Iollann  Beag  looks  yearningly  towards  the 

Messenger  and  the  others  as  if  he  would  fain 

go;  then  he  turns  to  Ciaran . 

Iollann  Beag.  I will. 

Ciaran  ( caressing  him).  That  is  my 
good  little  lad. 

Art.  We  will  bring  you  back  some  of 
the  King’s  mead,  Iollann. 

Iollann  Beag.  Bring  me  some  of  his 
apples  and  his  hazel-nuts. 

Ronan.  We  will,  and,  maybe,  a roast 
capon,  or  a piece  of  venison. 

They  all  go  out  laughing . Ceallach  turns 

back  in  the  door . 

Ceallach.  Good-bye,  Master. 

Ciaran.  May  you  go  safe,  lad.  (To 
Iollann ).  You  are  my  whole  school  now, 
Iollann. 

Iollann  (sitting  down  at  his  knee).  Do 
you  think  the  King  will  come  here  ? 

Ciaran.  Yes,  I think  he  will  come. 

Iollann.  I would  like  to  see  him.  Is  he 
a great,  tall  man  ? 

Ciaran.  I have  not  seen  him  for  a long 
time ; not  since  he  and  I were  lads. 

85 


THE  MASTER 


Iollann.  Were  you  friends? 

Ciaran.  We  were  fostered  together. 

Iollann.  Is  he  a wicked  King? 

Ciaran.  No  ; he  has  ruled  this  country 
well.  His  people  love  him.  They  have 
gone  into  many  perilous  places  with  him, 
and  he  has  never  failed  them. 

Iollann.  Why  then  does  he  hate  you  ? 
Why  do  Ceallach  and  the  others  fear  that 
he  may  do  you  harm? 

Ciaran.  For  twenty  years  Daire  and  I 
have  stood  over  against  each  other.  When 
we  were  at  school  we  were  rivals  for  the 
first  place.  I was  first  in  all  manly  games ; 
Daire  was  first  in  learning.  Everyone  said 
“ Ciaran  will  be  a great  warrior  and  Daire 
will  be  a great  poet  or  a great  teacher.” 
And  yet  it  has  not  been  so.  I was  nearly 
as  good  as  he  in  learning,  and  he  was  nearly 
as  good  as  I in  manly  feats.  I said  that  I 
would  be  his  master  in  all  things,  and  he 
said  that  he  would  be  my  master.  And  we 
strove  one  against  the  other. 

Iollann  Beag.  Why  did  you  want  to  be 
his  master? 

Ciaran.  I do  not  know.  I thought  that 
I should  be  happy  if  I were  first  and  Daire 

86 


THE  MASTER 


only  second.  But  Daire  was  always  first. 
I sought  out  difficult  things  to  do  that  I 
might  become  a better  man  than  he  : I went 
into  far  countries  and  won  renown  among 
strange  peoples,  but  very  little  wealth  and 
no  happiness  ; I sailed  into  seas  that  no  man 
before  me  had  sailed  into,  and  saw  islands 
that  only  God  and  the  angels  had  seen 
before  me ; I learned  outland  tongues  and 
read  the  books  of  many  peoples  and  their 
old  lore  ; and  when  I came  back  to  my  own 
country  I found  that  Daire  was  its  king, 
and  that  all  men  loved  him.  Me  they  had 
forgotten. 

Iollann  Beag.  Were  you  sad  when  you 
came  home  and  found  that  you  were  forgotten ? 

Ciaran.  No,  I was  glad.  I said,  “ This 
is  a hard  thing  that  I have  found  to  do,  to 
live  lonely  and  unbeloved  among  my  own 
kin.  Daire  has  not  done  anything  as  hard  as 
this.”  In  one  of  the  cities  that  I had  sailed 
to  I had  heard  of  the  true,  illustrious  God, 
and  of  men  who  had  gone  out  from  warm 
and  pleasant  houses,  and  from  the  kindly 
faces  of  neighbours  to  live  in  desert  places, 
where  God  walked  alone  and  terrible  ; and 
I said  that  I would  do  that  hard  thing, 

87 


THE  MASTER 


though  I would  fain  have  stayed  in  my 
father’s  house.  And  so  I came  into  this 
wilderness,  where  I have  lived  for  seven 
years.  For  a few  years  I was  alone  ; then 
pupils  began  to  come  to  me.  By-and-bye 
the  druids  gave  out  word  that  I v/as  teaching 
new  things  and  breaking  established  custom  ; 
and  the  King  has  forbade  my  teaching,  and 
I have  not  desisted,  and  so  he  and  I stand 
opposed  as  of  old. 

Iollann  Beag.  You  will  win  this  time, 
little  Master. 

Ciaran.  I think  so ; I hope  so,  dear. 
(. Aside .)  I would  1 could  say  “ I know  so.” 
This  seems  to  me  the  hardest  thing  I have 
tried  to  do.  Can  a soldier  fight  for  a cause 
of  which  he  is  not  sure?  Can  a teacher  die 
for  a thing  he  does  not  believe  ? 

Forgive  me,  Lord  ! It  is  my  weakness  that 
cries  out.  I believe,  I believe ; help  my 
unbelief.  (To  Iollann  Beag.)  Why  do  you 
think  I shall  win  this  time,  Iollann, — I who 
have  always  lost  ? 

Iollann  Beag.  Because  God’s  great  angels 
will  fight  for  you.  Will  they  not? 

Ciaran.  Yes,  I think  they  will.  All  that 
old  chivalry  stands  harnessed  in  Heaven. 

88 


THE  MASTER 

Iollann  Beag.  Will  they  not  come  if  you 
call  them  ? 

Ciaran.  Yes,  they  will  come.  [Aside.) 
Is  it  a true  thing  I tell  this  child  or  do  I lie 
to  him  ? Will  they  come  at  my  call  ? Will 
they  come  at  my  call?  My  spirit  reaches 
out  and  finds  Heaven  empty.  The  great 
halls  stand  horseless  and  riderless.  I have 
called  to  you,  O riders,  and  I have  not  heard 
the  thunder  of  your  coming.  The  multi- 
tudinous,many-voiced  seaand  the  green,  quiet 
earth  have  each  its  children,  but  where  are 
the  sons  of  Heaven?  Where  in  all  this 
temple  of  the  world,  this  dim  and  wondrous 
temple,  does  its  God  lurk  ? 

Iollann  Beag.  And  would  they  come  if 
I were  to  call  them — old  Peter,  and  the 
Baptist  John,  and  Michael  and  his  riders? 

Ciaran.  We  are  taught  that  if  one  calls 
them  with  faith  they  will  come. 

Iollann  Beag.  Could  I see  them  and 
speak  to  them  ? 

Ciaran.  If  it  were  necessary  for  any  dear 
purpose  of  God’s,  as  to  save  a soul  that  were 
in  peril,  we  are  taught  that  they  would  come 
in  bodily  presence,  and  that  one  could  see 
them  and  speak  to  them. 

89 


THE  MASTER 


Iollann  Beag.  If  the  soul  of  any  dear 
friend  of  mine  be  ever  in  peril  I will  call 
upon  them.  I will  say,  “ Baptist  John, 
Baptist  John,  attend  him.  Good  Peter  of 
the  Sword,  strike  valiantly.  Young  Michael, 
stand  near  with  all  the  heroes  of  Heaven  !” 
Ciaran  (aside).  If  the  soul  of  any  dear 
friend  of  his  were  in  peril ! The  peril  is 
near  ! The  peril  is  near  ! 

A knock  at  the  postern ; Iollann  Beag 
looks  towards  Ciaran . 

Ciaran.  Run,  Iollann,  and  see  who 
knocks.  (Iollann  Beag  goes  out.)  I have 
looked  back  over  the  journey  of  my  life  as  a 
man  at  evening  might  look  back  from  a 
hill  on  the  roads  he  had  travelled  since 
morning.  I have  seen  with  a great  clearness 
as  if  I had  left  this  green,  dim  wood  and 
climbed  to  the  top  of  that  far  hill  I have 
seen  from  me  for  seven  years  now,  yet  never 
climbed.  And  I see  that  all  my  wayfaring 
has  been  in  vain.  A man  may  not  escape 
from  that  which  is  in  himself.  A man  shall 
not  find  his  quest  unless  he  kill  the  dearest 
thing  he  has.  I thought  that  I was  sacrificing 
everything,  but  I have  not  sacrificed  the  old 
pride  of  my  heart.  I chose  self-abnegation, 

90 


THE  MASTER 


not  out  of  humility,  but  out  of  pride  : 
and  God,  that  terrible  hidden  God,  has 
punished  me  by  withholding  from  me  His 
most  precious  gift  of  faith.  Faith  comes  to 
the  humble  only.  . . . Nay,  Lord,  I 

believe : this  is  but  a temptation.  Thou, 
too,  wast  tempted.  Thou,  too,  wast  forsaken. 
O valiant  Christ,  give  me  Thy  strength  ! 
My  need  is  great.  Iollann  Beag  returns . 

Iollann  Beag.  There  is  a warrior  at  the 
door,  Master,  that  asks  a shelter.  He  says 
he  has  lost  his  way  in  the  wood. 

Ciaran.  Bid  him  to  come  in  Iollann. 
( Iollann  Beag  goes  to  the  door  again .)  I,  too, 

have  lost  my  way.  I am  like  one  that  has 
trodden  intricate  forest  paths  that  have  crossed 
and  recrossed  and  never  led  him  to  any 
homestead  ; or  like  a mariner  that  has 
voyaged  on  a shoreless  sea  yearning  for  a 
glimpse  of  green  earth,  yet  never  descrying 
it.  If  I could  find  some  little  place  to  rest, 
if  I could  but  lie  still  at  last  after  so  much 
wayfaring,  after  such  clamour  of  loud- 
voiced  winds,  methinks  that  would  be  to 
find  God  ; for  is  not  God  quiet,  is  not  God 
peace  ? But  always  I go  on  with  a cry  as 
of  baying  winds  or  of  vociferous  hounds 

91 


THE  MASTER 


about  me.  . . . They  say  the  King 

hunts  me  to-day:  but  the  King  is  not  so 
terrible  a hunter  as  the  desires  and  the  doubts 
of  a man’s  heart.  The  King  I can  meet  un- 
afraid, but  who  is  not  afraid  of  himself? 
(. Daire  enters , wrapped  in  a long  mantle , and 
stands  a little  within  the  threshold : lollann 
Beag  behind  him . Ciaran  looks  fixedly  at  him ; 
then  speaks.)  You  have  hunted  well  to-day, 
O Daire  ! 

Daire.  I am  famed  as  a hunter. 

Ciaran.  When  I was  a young  man  I said, 
“ I will  strive  with  the  great  untamed 
elements,  with  the  ancient,  illimitable  sea 
and  the  anarchic  winds  ; ” you,  in  the  manner 
of  Kings,  have  warred  with  timid,  furtive 
creatures,  and  it  has  taught  you  only  cruelty 
and  craft. 

Daire.  What  has  your  warfare  taught 
you  ? I do  not  find  you  changed,  Ciaran. 
Your  old  pride  but  speaks  a new  language. 

I am,  as  you  remind  me,  only  a 
King  ; but  I have  been  a good  King.  Have 
you  been  a good  teacher? 

Ciaran.  Mv  pupils  must  answer. 

Daire.  Where  are  your  pupils? 

Ciaran.  True  ; they  are  not  here. 

92 


THE  MASTER 


Daire.  They  are  at  an  ale-feast  in  my 
tent.  . . . ( Coming  ?iearer  to  Ciaran.) 

I have  not  come  to  taunt  you,  Ciaran. 
Nor  should  you  taunt  me.  You  seem  to 
me  to  have  spent  your  life  pursuing  shadows 
that  fled  before  you  ; yea,  pursuing  ghosts 
over  wide  spaces  and  through  the  devious 
places  of  the  world : and  I pity  you  for  the 
noble  manhood  you  have  wasted.  I seem 
to  you  to  have  spent  my  life  busy  with  the 
little,  vulgar  tasks  and  the  little,  vulgar 
pleasures  of  a King  : and  you  pity  me  because 
I have  not  adventured,  because  I have  not 
been  tried,  because  I have  not  suffered  as 
you  have.  It  should  be  sufficient  triumph 
for  each  of  us  that  each  pities  the  other, 
Ciaran.  You  speak  gently,  Daire;  and 
you  speak  wisely.  You  were  always  wise. 
And  yet,  methinks,  you  are  wrong.  There 
is  a deeper  antagonism  between  you  and  me 
than  you  are  aware  of.  It  is  not  merelv 
that  the  little  things  about  you,  the  little, 
foolish,  mean,  discordant  things  of  a man’s 
life,  have  satisfied  you,  and  that  I have  been 
discontent,  seeking  things  remote  and  holy 
and  perilous  — 

Daire.  Ghosts,  ghosts ! 

93 


THE  MASTER 


Ciaran.  Nay,  they  alone  are  real  ; or, 
rather,  it  alone  is  real.  For  though  its 
names  be  many,  its  substance  is  one.  One 
man  will  call  it  happiness,  another  will  call 
it  beauty,  a third  will  call  it  holiness,  a 
fourth  will  call  it  rest.  I have  sought  it 
under  all  its  names. 

Daire.  What  is  it  that  you  have  sought? 

Ciaran.  I have  sought  truth. 

Daire.  And  have  you  found  truth  ? 
(i Ciaran  bows  his  head  in  dejection .)  Ciaran, 
was  it  worth  your  while  to  give  up  all  goodly 
life  to  follow  that  mocking  phantom  ? I do 
not  say  that  a man  should  not  renounce  ease. 
I have  not  loved  ease.  But  I have  loved 
power,  and  victory,  and  life,  and  men,  and 
women,  and  the  gracious  sun.  He  who 
renounces  these  things  to  follow  a phantom 
across  a world  has  given  his  all  for  nothing. 

Ciaran.  Is  not  the  mere  quest  often  worth 
while,  even  if  the  thing  quested  be  never 
found  ? 

Daire.  And  so  you  have  not  found  your 
quest  ? 

Ciaran.  You  lay  subtle  traps  for  me  in 
your  speeches,  Daire.  It  was  your  way  at 
school  when  we  disputed. 

94 


THE  MASTER 


Daire.  Kings  must  be  subtle.  It  is  by 
craft  we  rule.  . . . Ciaran,  for  the 

shadow  you  have  pursued  I offer  you  a 
substance ; in  place  of  vain  journeying  I 
invite  you  to  rest.  ...  If  you  make 
your  peace  with  me  you  shall  be  the  second 
man  in  my  kingdom. 

Ciaran  (in  scorn  and  wrath).  The  second 
man  ! 

Daire.  There  speaks  your  old  self,  Ciaran. 
I did  not  mean  to  wound  you.  I am  the 
King,  chosen  by  the  people  to  rule  and  lead. 
I could  not,  even  if  I would,  place  you  above 
me ; but  I will  place  you  at  my  right  hand. 

Ciaran.  You  would  bribe  me  with  this 
petty  honour? 

Daire.  No.  I would  gain  you  for  the 
service  of  your  people.  What  other  service 
should  a man  take  upon  him  ? 

Ciaran.  I told  you  that  you  did  not 
understand  the  difference  between  you  and 
me.  May  one  not  serve  the  people  by 
bearing  testimony  in  their  midst  to  a true 
thing  even  as  by  feeding  them  with 
bread  ? 

Daire.  Again  you  prate  of  truth.  Are 
you  fond  enough  to  think  that  what  has  not 

95 


THE  MASTER 

imposed  even  upon  your  pupils  will  impose 
upon  me  ? 

Ciaran.  My  pupils  believe.  You  must 
not  wrong  them,  Daire. 

Daire.  Are  you  sure  of  them  ? 

Ciaran.  Yes,  I am  sure.  ( Aside .)  Yet 
sometimes  I thought  that  that  gibing  Maine 
did  not  believe.  It  may  be  — 

Daire.  Where  are  your  pupils  ? Why 
are  they  not  here  to  stand  by  you  in  your 
bitter  need  ? 

Ciaran.  You  enticed  them  from  me  by 
guile. 

Daire.  I invited  them  ; they  came.  You 
could  not  keep  them,  Ciaran.  Think  you  my 
young  men  would  have  left  me,  in  similar 
case  ? Their  bodies  would  have  been  my 
bulwark  against  a host. 

Ciaran.  You  hint  unspeakable  things. 

Daire.  I do  but  remind  you  that  you 
have  to-day  no  disciples ; ( smiling ) except, 
perhaps,  this  little  lad.  Come,  I will  win 
him  from  you  with  an  apple. 

Ciaran.  You  shall  not  tempt  him  ! 

Daire  [laughing).  Ciaran,  you  stand  con- 
fessed : you  have  no  faith  in  your  disciples  ; 
methinks  you  have  no  faith  in  your  religion. 

96 


THE  MASTER 


Ciaran.  You  are  cruel,  Daire.  You  were 
not  so  cruel  when  we  were  lads. 

Daire.  You  have  come  into  my  country 
preaching  to  my  people  newthings, incredible 
things,  things  you  dare  not  believe  yourself. 
I will  not  have  this  lie  preached  to  men.  If 

a 

your  religion  be  true,  you  must  give  me  a 
sign  of  its  truth. 

Ciaran.  It  is  true,  it  is  true  ! 

Daire.  Give  me  a sign.  Nay,  show  me 
that  you  yourself  believe.  Call  upon  your 
God  to  reveal  Himself.  I do  not  trust  these 
skulking  gods. 

Ciaran.  Who  am  I to  ask  that  great 
Mystery  to  unveil  Its  face?  Who  are  you 
that  a miracle  should  be  wrought  for  you? 

Daire.  This  is  not  an  answer.  So  priests 
ever  defend  their  mysteries.  I will  not  be 
put  off  as  one  would  put  off  a child  that 
asks  questions.  Lo,  here  I bare  my  sword 
against  God ; lo,  here  I lift  up  my  shield. 
Let  one  of  his  great  captains  come  down  to 
answer  the  challenge  ! 

Ciaran.  This  the  bragging  of  a fool. 

Daire.  Nor  does  that  answer  me.  Ciaran, 
you  are  in  my  power.  My  young  men 
surround  this  house.  Yours  are  at  an  ale-feast. 

97 


H 


THE  MASTER 


Ciaran.  O wise  and  far-seeing  King ! 
You  have  planned  all  well. 

Daire.  There  is  a watcher  at  every  door 
of  your  house.  There  a tracker  on  every 
path  of  the  forest.  The  wild  boar  crouches 
in  his  lair  for  fear  of  the  men  that  fill 
this  wood.  Three  rings  of  champions  ring 
round  the  tent  in  which  your  pupils  feast. 
Your  God  had  need  to  show  Himself 
a God  ! 

Ciaran.  Nay,  slay  me,  Daire.  I will 
bear  testimony  with  my  life. 

Daire.  What  will  that  prove?  Men  die 
for  false  things,  for  ridiculous  things,  for 
evil  things.  What  vile  cause  has  not  its 
heroes  ? Though  you  were  to  die  here  with 
joy  and  laughter  you  would  not  prove 
your  cause  a true  one.  Ciaran,  let  God 
send  down  an  angel  to  stand  between  you 
and  me. 

Ciaran.  Do  you  think  that  to  save  my 
poor  life  Omnipotence  will  display  Itself? 

Daire.  Who  talks  of  your  life  ? It  is 
your  soul  that  is  at  stake,  and  mine,  and  this 
little  boy’s,  and  the  souls  of  all  this  nation, 
born  and  unborn. 

Ciaran  ( aside ).  He  speaks  true. 

98 


THE  MASTER 


Daire.  Nay,  I will  put  you  to  the  proof. 
{To  lollann .)  Come  hither,  child.  {lollann 
Beag  approaches .)  He  is  daintily  fashioned, 
Ciaran,  this  last  little  pupil  of  yours.  I 
swear  to  you  that  he  shall  die  unless  your 
God  sends  down  an  angel  to  rescue  him. 
Kneel  boy.  {lollann  Beag  kneels.)  Speak 
now,  if  God  has  ears  to  hear. 

He  raises  his  sword. 
Ciaran  {aside).  I dare  not  speak.  My 
God,  my  God,  why  hast  Thou  forsaken  me  ? 

Iollann  Beag.  Fear  not,  little  Master,  I 
remember  the  word  you  taught  me.  . . . 

Young  Michael,  stand  near  me  ! 

The  figure  of  a mighty  IVarrior , winged , 
and  clothed  in  light , seems  to  stand  beside  the 
boy.  Ciaran  bends  on  one  knee. 

Daire.  Who  art  thou,  O Soldier? 
Michael.  I am  he  that  waiteth  at  the 
portal.  I am  he  that  hasteneth.  I am  he  that 
rideth  before  the  squadron.  I am  he  that 
holdeth  a shield  over  the  retreat  of  man’s 
host  when  Satan  cometh  in  war.  I am  he 
that  turneth  and  smiteth.  I am  he  that  is 
Captain  of  the  Host  of  God. 

Daire  bends  slowly  on  one  knee . 

99 


THE  MASTER 


Ciaran.  The  Seraphim  and  the  Cherubim 
stand  horsed.  I hear  the  thunder  of  their 
coming.  . . O Splendour ! 

He  falls  forward , dead* 


CURTAIN 


IOSAGAN 


CHARACTERS 


IoSAGAN 
Old  Matthias 
The  Priest 

Boys:— Daragh,  Padraic,  Coilin,  Cuimin, 
Feichin,  Eoghan 

Daragh  and  Padraic  are  a little  older  than 
the  other  boys 

PLACE — A sea- strand  beside  a village 
in  Iar-Connacht 

TIME — The  present 


Iosagan,  loving  diminutive  of  lopa;  “Jesukin” 
(“IpuccAn”)  is  the  name  of  the  Child  Jesus  in  the 
exquisite  hymn  attributed  to  St.  Ita,  b.  470,  d.  580, 
A.D. — Author  s Note. 


IOSAGAN 


SCENE  I 

A sea-strand  beside  a village  in  Iar- 
Connacht.  A house  on  the  right-hand  side. 
The  sound  of  a bell  comes  east , very  clearly . 
The  door  of  the  house  is  opened . An  aged 
man , old  Matthias , comes  out  on  the  door-fag 
and  stands  for  a spell  looking  down  the  road. 
He  sits  then  on  a chair  that  is  outside  the  doory 
his  two  hands  gripping  a sticky  his  head  bent , 
and  he  listening  attentively  to  the  sound  of  the 
bell.  The  bell  stops  ringing.  Daragh , 

Padraic  and  Coilin  come  up  from  the  sea 
and  they  putting  on  their  share  of  clothes  after 
bathing . 

Daragh  ( stretching  his  finger  towards  the 
sea).  The  flowers  are  white  in  the  fisherman’s 

Padraic.  They  are,  muise. 

Coilin.  Where  are  they  ? 

i°3 


IOSAGAN 


Daragh.  See  them  out  on  the  sea. 

Coilin.  Those  are  not  white  flowers. 
Th  ose  are  white  horses. 

Daragh.  They’re  like  white  flowers. 

Coilin.  No;  Old  Matthias  says  those  are 
the  white  horses  that  go  galloping  across  the 
sea  from  the  Other  Country. 

Padraic.  I heard  Iosagan  saying  they 
were  flowers. 

Coilin.  What  way  would  flowers  grow 
on  the  sea? 

Padraic.  And  what  wav  would  horses 

* 

travel  on  the  sea? 

Coilin.  Easy,  if  they  were  fairy  horses 
would  be  in  them. 

Padraic.  And  wouldn’t  flowers  grow  on 
the  sea  as  easy,  if  they  were  fairy  flowers 
would  be  in  them?  Isn’t  it  often  you  saw 
the  water-lilies  on  Loch  Ellery  ? And 
couldn’t  they  grow  on  the  sea  as  well  as  on 
the  lake  ? 

Coilin.  I don’t  know  if  they  could. 

Padraic.  They  could,  muise . 

Daragh.  The  sea  was  fine  to-day,  lad. 

Coilin.  It  was,  but  it  was  devilish  cold. 

Padraic.  Why  wouldn’t  you  be  cold 
when  you’d  only  go  into  your  knees? 

1 04 


IOSAGAN 


Coilin.  By  my  word,  I was  afraid  the 
waves  would  knock  me  down  if  I’d  go  in 
any  further.  They  were  terrible  big. 

Daragh.  That’s  what  I like,  lad.  Do 
you  mind  yon  terrible  big  one  that  came 
over  our  heads? 

Padraic.  Aye,  and  Coilin  screaming  out 
he  was  drowned. 

Coilin.  It  went  down  my  throat  ; it  did 
that,  and  it  nearly  smothered  me. 

Padraic.  Sure,  you  had  your  mouth 
open,  and  you  shouting.  It  would  be  a queer 
story  if  it  didn’t  go  down  your  throat. 

Coilin,  Yon  one  gave  me  enough.  I 
kept  out  of  their  way  after  that. 

Daragh.  Have  the  other  lads  on  them  yet? 

Padraic.  Aye.  Here  they  are. 

Coilin.  Look  at  Feichin’s  hair  ! 

Feichin , Eoghan  and  Cuimin  come  up  from 
the  sea  and  they  drying  their  hair . 

Cuimin.  What’ll  we  play  to-day  ? 

Coilin.  “Blind  Man’s  Buff!” 

Padraic.  Ara,  shut  up,  yourself  and  your 
“ Blind  Man’s  Buff.” 

Coilin.  “ High  Gates,”  then  ! 

Padraic.  No.  We’re  tired  of  those 
“ High  Gates.” 


!°5 


IOSAGAN 


Daragh.  “ Hide  and  Seek  ! ” 

Feichin.  Away  ! 

Eoghan.  “ Fox  and  Chickens  ! ” 

Coilin.  No.  We’ll  play  “ Lurabog 
Lara  bog” 

Padraic  I ’ll  make  a lurabog  of  you  ! 

Coilin.  You  do  be  always  at  me,  Padraic. 
( Padraic  catches  hold  of  him.)  Listen  to  me, 

will  you  ? 

Cuimin.  Ara,  listen  to  him,  Padraic. 

Daragh.  Listen  to  him. 

Padraic  lets  him  go. 

Coilin.  Speak  yourself,  Padraic,  if  you 
won’t  give  leave  to  anyone  else. 

Padraic.  Let’s  jump  ! 

Eoghan.  Let’s  jump!  Let’s  jump  ! 

Daragh.  I’ll  bet  I’ll  beat  you,  Padraic. 

Padraic.  At  jumping,  is  it  f 

Daragh.  Aye. 

Padraic.  Didn’t  I beat  you  the  day 
before  yesterday  at  the  School  Rock? 

Daragh.  I’ll  bet  you  won’t  beat  me 
to-day.  Will  you  try  ? 

Padraic.  I won’t.  My  feet  are  sore.  ( The 
other  boys  begin  laughing ; Padraic  speaks  with 
a shamed  face .)  I’d  rather  play  ball. 

Eoghan.  Ball ! Ball ! 

106 


IOSAGAN 


Daragh.  Has  anybody  a ball  ? 

Cuimin.  And  if  they  had,  itself,  where 
would  we  play  ? 

Padraic.  Against  Old  Matthias’s  gable- 
end.  There’s  no  nicer  place  to  be  found. 

Coilin.  Who  has  the  ball  ? 

Cuimin.  My  soul,  I haven’t  it. 

Daragh.  No,  nor  I. 

Padraic.  You  yourself,  Coilin,  had  it  on 
Friday. 

Coilin.  By  my  word,  didn’t  the  master 
grab  it  where  I was  hopping  it  in  the  school 
at  Catechism  ? 

Feichin.  True  for  you,  lad. 

Cuimin.  My  soul,  but  I thought  he’d  give 
you  the  rod  that  time. 

Coilin.  He  would,  too,  only  he  was 
expecting  the  priest  to  come  in. 

Daragh.  It’s  the  ball  he  wanted.  He’ll 
have  a game  with  the  peelers  to-day  after 
Mass. 

Padraic.  My  soul,  but  he  will,  and  it’s 
he  can  beat  the  peelers,  too. 

Daragh.  He  can’t  beat  the  sergeant. 
The  sergeant’s  the  best  man  of  them  all. 
He  beat  Hoskins  and  the  red  man  together 
last  Sunday. 

107 


IOSAGAN 


Feichin.  Ara,  stop  ! Did  he  beat  them? 
Daragh.  He  did,  muise . The  red  man 

was  raging,  and  the  master  and  the  peelers 
all  laughing  at  him. 

Padraic.  I bet  the  master  will  beat  the 

sergeant. 

Daragh.  I’ll  bet  he  won’t. 

Padraic.  Do  ye  hear  him? 

Daragh.  I’ll  bet  the  sergeant  can  beat 
any  man  in  this  country. 

Padraic.  Ara,  how  do  you  know  whether 
he  can  or  not  ? 

Daragh.  I know  well  he  can.  Don’t 
I be  always  watching  them  ? 

Padraic.  You  don’t  know  ! 

Daragh.  I do  know  ! It’s  I that  know 
it  ! 

They  threaten  each  other . A quarrel 

arises  among  the  boys , a share  of  them  sayings 
“ The  sergeant’s  the  best  ! ” and  others , 
“ The  master’s  best  ! ” Old  Matthias 
gets  up  to  listen  to  them . He  comes  forward , 
twisted  and  bent  in  his  body , and  barely  able 
to  drag  his  feet  along . He  speaks  to  them 
quietly , laying  his  hand  on  Daragh' s head . 
Matthias.  O ! O ! O ! My  shame 
ye  are  ! 

108 


IOSAGAN 


Padraic.  This  fellow  says  the  master 
can’t  beat  the  sergeant  playing  ball. 

Daragh.  By  my  word,  wouldn’t  the 
sergeant  beat  anybody  at  all  in  this  country, 
Matthias  ? 

Matthias.  Never  mind  the  sergeant. 
Look  at  that  lonesome  wild  goose  that’s 
making  on  us  over  Loch  Ellery  ! Look ! 

All  the  boys  look  up . 

Padraic.  I see  it,  by  my  soul ! 

Daragh.  Where’s  she  coming  from, 
Matthias  ? 

Matthias.  From  the  Eastern  World. 
I would  say  she  has  travelled  a thousand 
miles  since  she  left  her  nest  in  the  lands  to 
the  north. 

Coilin.  The  poor  thing.  And  where  will 
she  drop  ? 

Matthias.  To  Aran  she’ll  go,  it’s  a 
chance.  See  her  now  out  over  the  sea. 
My  love  you  are,  lonesome  wild  goose  ! 

Coilin.  Tell  us  a story,  Matthias. 

He  sits  on  a stone  by  the  strand-edge , and 
the  boys  gather  round  him . 

Matthias.  What  story  shall  I tell*? 

Feichin.  “ The  Adventures  of  the  Grey 
Horse!” 

109 


IOSAGAN 

Cuimin.  “ The  Hen-Harrier  and  the 
Wren  ! ” 

Padraic.  “The  Two-Headed  Giant!” 
Coilin.  “ The  Adventures  of  the  Piper 
in  the  Snail’s  Castle  !” 

Eoghan.  Aye,  by  my  soul,  “The  Adven- 
tures of  the  Piper  in  the  Snail’s  Castle  ! ” 
The  Boys  (with  one  voice),  “ The  Adven- 
tures of  the  Piper  in  the  Snail’s  Castle!” 
Matthias.  I’ll  do  that.  “ There  was  a 
Snail  in  it  long  ago,  and  it’s  long  since  it 
was.  If  we’d  been  there  that  time,  we 
wouldn’t  be  here  now  ; and  if  we  were, 
itself,  we’d  have  a new  story  or  an  old 
story,  and  that’s  better  than  to  be  without 
e’er  a story  at  all.  The  Castle  this  Snail 
lived  in  was  the  finest  that  man’s  eye  ever  saw. 
It  was  greater  entirely,  and  it  was  a thousand 
times  richer  than  Meave’s  Castle  in  Rath 
Cruachan,  or  than  the  Castle  of  the  High- 
King  of  Ireland  itself  in  Tara  of  the  Kings. 
Th  is  Snail  made  love  to  a Spider  — ” 

Coilin.  No,  Matthias,  wasn’t  it  to  a 
Granny’s  Needle  he  made  love  ? 

Matthias.  My  soul,  but  you’re  right. 
What’s  coming  on  me  ? 

Padraic.  Go  on,  Matthias. 

1 10 


IOSAGAN 


Matthias.  “ This  Nettle-Worm  was 
very  comely  entirely  — ” 

Feichin.  What’s  the  Nettle-Worm, 
Matthias  ? 

Matthias.  Why,  the  Nettle-Worm  he 
made  love  to. 

Cuimin.  But  I thought  it  was  to  a 
Granny’s  Needle  he  made  love. 

Matthias.  Was  it  ? The  story’s  going 
from  me.  “This  Piper  was  in  love  with 
the  daughter  of  the  King  of  Connacht  — ” 

Eoghan.  But  you  didn’t  mention  the 
Piper  yet,  Matthias  ! 

Matthias.  Didn’t  I ! “ The  Piper 

” yes,  by  my  soul,  the  Piper  — 
I’m  losing  my  memory.  Look  here,  neigh- 
bours, we  won’t  meddle  with  the  story 
to-day.  Let’s  have  a song. 

Coilin.  “ Hi  diddle  dum  ! ” 

Matthias.  Are  ye  satisfied  ? 

The  Boys.  We  are. 

Matthias.  I’ll  do  that.  {He  sings  the 
following  rhyme)  : 

“ Hi  diddle  dum,  the  cat  and  his 
mother, 

That  went  to  Galway  riding  a drake.” 

The  Boys.  And  hi  diddle  dum  ! 


1 1 1 


IOSAGAN 


Matthias. 

“ Hi  diddle  dum,  the  rain  came  pelting, 
And  drenched  to  the  skin  the  cat  and  his 
mother.” 

The  Boys.  And  hi  diddle  dum  ! 
Matthias. 

“ Hi  diddle  dum,  ’twas  like  in  the  deluge 
The  cat  and  his  mother  would  both  be 
drownded.” 

The  Boys.  And  hi  diddle  dum  ! 
Matthias. 

“ Hi  diddle  dum,  my  jewel  the  drake  was, 
That  carried  his  burden  — ” 

Coilin.  Swimming  — 

Matthias.  Good  man,  Coilin. 

“ That  carried  his  burden  swimming  to 
Galway.” 

The  Boys.  And  hi  diddle  dum  ! 

Old  Matthias  shakes  his  head  wearily  ; 
he  speaks  in  a sad  voice . 
Matthias.  My  songs  are  going  from 
me,  neighbours.  I’m  like  an  old  fiddle 
that’s  lost  all  its  strings. 

Cuimin.  Haven’t  you  the  “ Baidln ” 
always,  Matthias  ? 

Matthias.  I have,  my  soul ; I have  it 
as  long  as  I’m  living.  I won’t  lose  the 

1 1 2 


IOSAGAN 


“ Bdidln  ” till  I’m  stretched  in  the  clay. 
Shall  we  have  it  ? 

The  Boys.  Aye. 

Matthias.  Are  ye  ready  to  go  rowing  ? 
The  Boys.  We  are  ! 

They  order  themselves  as  they  would  be 
rowing . Old  Matthias  sings  these  verses. 
Matthias. 

“ I will  hang  a sail,  and  I will  go  west.” 
The  Boys.  Oro\  mo  churaichln , 0/ 
Matthias. 

“ And  till  St.  John’s  Day  I will  not  rest.” 
The  Boys.  Oro , mo  churaichln , 0 / 

CW,  churaichln.  0 ! 

'S  oro , mo  bhaidln  ! 

Matthias. 

“ Isn’t  it  fine,  my  little  boat,  sailing  on  the 
bay.” 

The  Boys,  Oro , ^ churaichin , 0/ 
Matthias.  “ The  oars  pulling  — ” 

He  stops  suddenly , to 

his  head. 

Padraic.  What’s  on  you,  Matthias  ? 
Eoghan.  Are  you  sick,  Matthias  ? 
Matthias.  Something  that  came  on  my 
head.  It’s  nothing.  What’s  this  I was 
saying  ? 


1 x3 


i 


IOSAGAN 


Coilin.  You  were  saying  the  “ Baidinf 

Matthias,  but  don’t  mind  if  you  don’t  feel 
* + 

well.  Are  you  sick  ? 

Matthias.  Sick  ? By  my  word,  I’m 
not  sick.  What  would  make  me  sick  ? 
We’ll  start  again : 

“ Isn’t  it  fine,  my  little  boat,  sailing  on  the 
bay.” 

The  Boys.  Oro\  mo  churaichin , 0 / 
Matthias.  “ The  oars  pulling  strongly — ” 
(He  stops  again.)  Neighbours,  the  “ Bat  din  ” 
itself  is  gone  from  me.  (They  remain  silent 
for  a spelf  the  old  man  sitting  and  his  head 
bent  on  his  breast , and  the  boys  looking  on  him 
sorrowfully . The  old  man  speaks  with  a start.) 
Are  those  the  people  coming  home  from 
Mass  ? 

Cuimin.  No.  They  won’t  be  free  for 
a half  hour  yet. 

Coilin.  Why  don’t  you  go  to  Mass, 
Matthias  ? 

The  old  man  rises  up  and  puts  his  hand 
to  his  head  again.  He  speaks  angrily  at 
first , and  after  that  softly. 

Matthias.  Why  don’t  I go  ? . . . I’m 
not  good  enough.  By  my  word,  God 

1 14' 


IOSAGAN 


wouldn’t  hear  me.  . . . What’s  this  I’m 

saying  ? . . . (He  laughs .)  And  I have 

lost  the  “ Baidin”  do  ye  say  ? Amn’t  I the 
pitiful  object  without  my  “ Baidin  ! ” 

He  hobbles  slowly  across  the  road.  Coilin 
rises  and  puts  his  shoulder  under  the  old 
man  s hand  to  support  him . The  boys  begin 
playing  “ jacks  tones”  quietly.  Old  Matthias 
sits  on  the  chair  again , and  Coilin  returns. 
Daragh  speaks  in  a low  voice. 

Daragh.  There’s  something  on  Old 
Matthias  to-day.  He  never  forgot  the 
“ Baidin  ” before. 

Cuimin.  I heard  my  father  saying  to  my 
mother,  the  other  night,  that  it’s  not  long 
he  has  to  live. 

Coilin.  Do  you  think  is  he  very  old  ? 
Padraic.  Why  did  you  put  that  question 
on  him  about  the  Mass  ? Don’t  you  know 
he  hasn’t  been  seen  at  Mass  in  the  memory 
of  the  people  ? 

Daragh.  I heard  Old  Cuimin  Enda 
saying  to  my  father  that  he  himself  saw 
Old  Matthias  at  Mass  when  he  was  a 
youth. 

Coilin.  Do  you  know  why  he  doesn’t 
go  to  Mass  now  ? 


1 1 5 


IOSAGAN 


Padraic  (in  a whisper ).  It’s  said  he 
doesn’t  believe  there’s  a God. 

Cuimin.  I heard  Father  Sean  Eamonn 
saying  it’s  the  way  he  did  some  terrible 
sin  at  the  start  of  his  life,  and  when 
the  priest  wouldn’t  give  him  absolution  in 
confession  there  came  a raging  anger  on 
him,  and  he  swore  an  oath  he  wouldn’t 
touch  priest  or  chapel  for  ever  again. 

Daragh.  That’s  not  how  I heard  it. 
One  night  when  I was  in  bed  the  old  people 
were  talking  and  whispering  by  the  fireside, 
and  IheardMaire  of  the  Bridge  saying  to  the 
other  old  women  that  it’s  the  way  Matthias 
sold  his  soul  to  some  Great  Man  he  met 
once  on  the  top  of  Cnoc-a’-Daimh,  and  that 
this  Man  wouldn’t  allow  him  to  go  to 
Mass. 

Padraic.  Do  you  think  was  it  the  devil 
he  saw? 

Daragh.  I don’t  know.  A u Great 
Man,”  said  Maire  of  the  Bridge. 

Cuimin.  I wouldn’t  believe  a word  of  it. 
Sure,  if  Matthias  sold  his  soul  to  the  devil 
it  must  be  he’s  a wicked  person. 

Padraic.  He’s  not  a wicked  person, 
muise . Don’t  you  mind  the  day  Iosagan 

1 16 


IOSAGAN 


said  that  his  father  told  him  Matthias  would 
be  among  the  saints  on  the  Day  of  the 
Mountain  ? 

Cuimin.  I mind  it  well. 

Coilin.  Where’s  Iosagan  from  us  to-day? 
Daragh.  He  never  comes  when  there 
does  be  a grown  person  watching  us. 

Cuimin.  Wasn’t  he  here  a week  ago 
to-day  when  old  Matthias  was  watching  us? 
Daragh.  Was  he? 

Cuimin.  He  was. 

Padraic.  Aye,  and  a fortnight  to-day,  as 
well. 

Daragh.  There’s  a chance  he’ll  come 
to-day,  then.  Cuimin  rises  and  looks  east . 
Cuimin.  O,  see,  he’s  coming. 

Iosagan  enters — a little , brown-haired  boy , 
a white  coat  on  him , and  he  without  shoes  or 
cap  like  the  other  boys . The  boys  welcome 
him . 

The  Boys.  God  save  you,  Iosagan  ! 
Iosagan.  God  and  Mary  save  you  ! 

He  sits  among  them , a hand  of  his  about 
Daragli  s neck ; the  boys  begin  playing  again , 
gently , without  noise  or  quarrelling . Iosagan 
joins  in  the  game . Matthias  rises  with  a 

start  on  the  coming  of  Iosagan , and  stands 

ll7 


IOSAGAN 


gazing  at  him.  After  they  have  played  for 
a spell  he  comes  towards  them , and  then 
stands  again  and  calls  over  to  Coilin. 
Matthias.  Coilin  ! 

Coilin.  What  do  you  want  ? 

Matthias.  Come  here  to  me.  ( Coilin  rises 
and  goes  to  him.)  Who  is  that  boy  I see  among 
you  this  fortnight  back — he,  yonder,  with 
the  brown  head  on  him — but  take  care  it’s 
not  red  he  is  ; I don’t  know  is  it  black  or 
is  it  fair  he  is,  the  way  the  sun  is  burning 
on  him  ? Do  you  see  him — him  that  has 
his  arm  about  Daragh’s  neck? 

Coilin.  That’s  Iosagan. 

Matthias.  Iosagan  ? 

Coilin.  That’s  the  name  he  gives  himself 
Matthias.  Who  are  his  people  ? 

Coilin.  I don’t  know,  but  he  says  his 
father’s  a king. 

Matthias.  Where  does  he  live  ? 

Coilin.  He  never  told  us  that,  but  he 
says  his  house  isn’t  far  away. 

Matthias.  Does  he  be  among  you 
often  ? 

Coilin.  He  does,  when  we  do  be  amusing 
ourselves  like  this.  But  he  goes  from  us 
when  grown  people  come  near.  He  will 

1 1 8 


IOSAGAN 


go  from  us  now  as  soon  as  the  people  begin 
coming  from  Mass. 

The  boys  rise  and  go , in  ones  and  twos , 
when  they  have  finished  the  game . 
Coilin.  O ! They  are  going  jumping. 

He  runs  out  after  the  others . Iosagan 
and  Daragh  rise  and  go.  Matthias  comes 
forward  and  calls  Iosagan. 

Matthias.  Iosagan ! ( The  Child  turns 
back  and  comes  towards  him  at  a run.)  Come 
here  and  sit  on  my  knee  for  a little  while, 
Iosagan.  ( The  Child  links  his  hand  in  the  old 

man' s hand,  and  they  cross  the  road  together. 
Matthias  sits  on  his  chair  and  draws  Iosagan  to 
him.)  Where  do  you  live,  Iosagan  ? 

Iosagan.  Not  far  from  this  my  house  is. 
Why  don’t  you  come  to  see  me? 

Matthias.  I would  be  afraid  in  a royal 
house.  They  tell  me  that  your  father’s  a 
king. 

Iosagan.  He  is  High-King  of  the  World. 
But  there’s  no  call  for  you  to  be  afraid  of 
Him.  He’s  full  of  pity  and  love. 

Matthias.  I fear  I didn’t  keep  His  law. 
Iosagan.  Ask  forgiveness  of  Him.  I and 
my  Mother  will  make  intercession  for  you. 
Matthias.  It’s  a pity  I didn’t  see  You 

”9 


IOSAGAN 

before  this,  Iosagan.  Where  were  You 
from  me  ? 

Iosagan.  I was  here  always.  I do  be 
travelling  the  roads  and  walking  the  hills 
and  ploughing  the  waves.  I do  be  among 
the  people  when  they  gather  into  My  house. 
I do  be  among  the  children  they  do  leave 
behind  them  playing  on  the  street. 

Matthias.  I was  too  shy,  or  too  proud, 
to  go  into  Your  house,  Iosagan  : among  the 
children,  it  was,  I found  You. 

Iosagan.  There  isn’t  any  place  or  time 
the  children  do  be  making  fun  to  themselves 
that  I’m  not  with  them.  Times  they  see 
Me ; other  times  they  don’t  see  Me. 

Matthias.  I never  saw  You  till  lately. 

Iosagan.  All  the  grown  people  do  be 
blind. 

Matthias.  And  it  has  been  granted  me 
to  see  You,  Iosagan. 

Iosagan.  My  Father  gave  Me  leave  to 
show  Myself  to  you  because  you  loved  His 
little  children.  ( The  voices  are  heard  of  the 
people  returning  from  Mass.)  I must  go  now 
from  you. 

Matthias.  Let  me  kiss  the  hem  of 
Your  coat. 


120 


IOSAGAN 


IoSAGAN.  Kiss  it. 

He  kisses  the  hem  of  His  coat . 
Matthias.  Shall  I see  You  again, Iosagan? 
Iosagan.  You  will. 

Matthias.  When  ? 

Iosagan.  To-night. 

Iosagan  goes.  The  old  man  stands  on  the 
door-fag  looking  after  Him . 
Matthias.  I will  see  Him  to-night. 

The  people  pass  along  the  road , returning 
from  Mass . 


CURTAIN 


I 2 I 


SCENE  II 


Old  Matthias's  room . It  is  very  dark . The 
old  man  lying  on  his  bed.  Some  one  knocks 
outside  the  door.  Matthias  speaks  in  a weak 
voice . 

Matthias.  Come  in.  [The  Priest  enters. 
He  sits  down  beside  the  bed  and  hears  the  old 
man's  confession . When  they  have  finished , 
Matthias  speaks.)  Who  told  you  I was 
wanting  you,  Father?  I was  praying  God 
that  you’d  come,  but  I hadn’t  a messenger 
to  send  for  you. 

Priest.  But,  sure,  you  did  send  a mes- 
senger for  me  ? 

Matthias.  No. 

Priest.  You  didn’t?  But  a little  boy 
came  and  knocked  at  my  door,  and  he  said 
you  were  wanting  my  help. 

The  old  man  straightens  himself  back  in  the 
bed , and  his  eyes  flash. 
Matthias.  What  sort  of  a little  boy  was 
he,  Father? 


122 


IOSAGAN 


Priest.  A mannerly  little  boy,  with  a 
white  coat  on  him. 

Matthias.  Did  you  take  notice  if  there 
was  a shadow  of  light  about  his  head  ? 

Priest.  I did,  and  it  put  great  wonder 
on  me. 

The  door  opens . lo sagan  stands  on  the 

threshold , and  He  with  His  two  arms  stretched 
oat  towards  Matthias  ; a miraculous  light 
about  His  face  and  head. 

Matthias.  Iosagan ! You’re  good, 
Iosagan.  You  didn’t  fail  me,  love.  I was 
too  proud  to  go  into  Your  house,  but  at  the 
last  it  was  granted  me  to  see  You.  “ I was 
here  always,”  says  He.  “ I do  be  travelling 
the  roads  and  walking  the  hills  and  plough- 
ing the  waves.  I do  be  among  the  people 
when  they  gather  into  My  house.  I do  be 
among  the  children  they  do  leave  behind 
playing  on  the  street.”  Among  the  children, 
it  was,  I found  You,  Iosagan.  “ Shall  I see 
You  again?”  44  You  will,”  says  He.  44  You’ll 
see  Me  to-night.”  Se  do  bheatha , a losagain  ! 

He  falls  back  on  the  bed , and  he  dead . 
The  Priest  goes  softly  to  him  and  closes  his 
eves . 

CURTAIN 

123 


THE  MOTHER 


THE  MOTHER 


There  was  a company  of  women  sitting 
up  one  night  in  the  house  of  Barbara  of  the 
Bridge,  spinning  frieze.  It  would  be 
music  to  you  to  be  listening  to  them,  and 
their  voices  making  harmony  with  the  drone 
of  the  wheels,  like  the  sound  of  the  wind 
with  the  shaking  of  the  bushes. 

They  heard  a cry.  The  child,  it  was, 
talking  in  its  sleep. 

“ Some  evil  thing  that  crossed  the  door,” 
says  Barbara.  “ Rise,  Maire,  and  stir  the 
cradle.” 

The  woman  spoken-to  got  up.  She  was 
sitting  on  the  floor  till  that,  carding.  She 
went  over  to  the  cradle.  The  child  was 
wide  awake  before  her,  and  he  crying 
pitifully.  Maire  knelt  down  beside  the 
cradle.  As  soon  as  the  child  saw  her  face 
he  ceased  from  crying.  A long,  beautiful 
face  she  had ; a brow,  broad  and  smooth, 
black  hair  and  it  twisted  in  clusters  about 
her  head,  and  two  grey  eyes  that  would 
look  on  you  slow,  serious,  and  troubled-like. 

127 


THE  MOTHER 


It  was  a gift  Maire  had,  the  way  she  would 
quieten  a cross  child  or  put  a sick  child  to 
sleep,  looking  on  that  smooth,  pleasant  face 
and  those  grey,  loving  eyes  of  hers. 

Maire  began  singing  the  “ Crondn  na 
Banaltra  ” (The  Nurse’s  Lullaby)  in  a 
low  voice.  The  other  women  ceased  from 
their  talk  to  listen  to  her.  It  wasn’t  long 
till  the  child  was  in  a dead  sleep.  Maire 
rose  and  went  back  to  where  she  was  sitting 
before.  She  fell  to  her  carding  again. 

“ May  you  have  good,  Maire,”  says 
Barbara.  “ There’s  no  wonder  in  life  but 
the  way  you’re  able  to  put  children  asleep. 
Though  that’s  my  own  heir,  I would  be 
hours  of  the  clock  with  him  before  he 
would  go  off  on  me.” 

“ Maire  has  magic,”  says  another  woman. 

“ She’s  like  the  harpers  of  Meave  that 
would  put  a host  of  men  asleep  when  they 
would  play  their  sleep-tunes,”  says  old  Una 
ni  Greelis. 

“ Isn’t  it  fine  she  can  sing  the  Crondn  na 
Banaltra?' ’ says  the  second  woman. 

“ My  soul,  you  would  think  it  was  the 
Virgin  herself  that  would  be  saying  it,” 
says  old  Una. 


128 


THE  MOTHER 


“ Do  you  think  is  it  true,  Una,  that  it 
was  the  Blessed  Virgin  (praise  to  her  for 
ever)  that  made  that  tune?”  says  Barbara. 

“ I know  it’s  true.  Isn’t  it  with  that 
tune  she  used  put  the  Son  of  God  (a 
thousand  glories  to  His  name)  asleep  when 
He  was  a child  ? ” 

“ And  how  is  it,  then,  the  people  do 
have  it  now?”  says  Barbara. 

“ Coming  down  from  generation  to  gener- 
ation, I suppose,  like  the  Fenian  tales,”  says 
one  of  the  women. 

“No,  my  soul,”  says  old  Una.  “The 
people  it  was  heard  the  tune  from  the 
Virgin’s  mouth  itself,  here  in  this  country- 
side, not  so  long  ago.” 

“ And  how  would  they  hear  it  ? ” 

“ Doesn’t  the  world  know  that  the 
glorious  Virgin  goes  round  the  townlands 
every  Christmas  Eve,  herself  and  her  child  ? ” 
“ I heard  the  people  saying  she  does.” 

“ And  don’t  you  know  if  the  door  is  left 
ajar  and  a candle  lighting  in  the  window, 
that  the  Virgin  and  her  Child  will  come 
into  the  house,  and  that  they  will  sit  down 
to  rest  themselves?” 

“ My  soul,  but  I heard  that,  too.” 

129  K 


THE  MOTHER 


“A  woman  of  the  Joyce  country,  it 
was,  waiting  up  on  Christmas  Eve  to  see 
the  Virgin,  that  heard  the  tune  from 
her  for  the  first  time  and  taught  it  to 
the  country.  It’s  often  I heard  dis- 
course about  her,  and  I a growin  g g>rl- 
c Maire  of  the  Virgin  ’ was  the  name  they 
gave  her.  It’s  said  that  it’s  often  she  saw 
the  glorious  Virgin.  She  died  in  the  poor- 
house  in  Uachtar  Ard  a couple  of  years 
before  I was  married.  The  blessing  of  God 
be  with  the  souls  of  the  dead.” 

“ Amen,  O Lord,”  say  the  other  women. 
But  Maire  did  not  speak.  She  and  her 
two  big  grey  eyes  were  going,  as  you  would 
say,  through  old  Una’s  forehead,  and  she 
telling  the  story.  She  spoke  after  a spell. 

“ Are  you  sure,  Una,  that  the  Virgin  and 
her  Child  come  into  the  houses  on  Christmas 
Eve  ? ” says  she. 

“ As  sure  as  I’m  living.” 

“ Did  you  ever  see  her  ? ” 

“ I did  not,  then.  But  the  Christmas 
Eve  after  I was  married  I waited  up  to  see 
her,  if  it  would  be  granted  me.  A cloud 
of  sleep  fell  on  me.  Some  noise  woke  me, 
and  when  I opened  my  eyes  I thought 

13° 


THE  MOTHER 


I saw,  as  it  would  be,  a young  woman  and 
a child  in  her  arms  going  out  the  door.” 

No  one  spoke  for  a long  time.  Nothing 
was  heard  in  the  house  but  the  drone  of 
the  spinning-wheels  and  the  crackling  of  the 
fire,  and  the  chirping  of  the  crickets.  Maire 
got  up. 

“ I’ll  be  shortening  the  road,”  says  she. 
“ May  God  give  you  good  night,  women.” 

“ God  speed  you,  Maire,”  they  answered 
together. 

She  drew-to  the  door  on  herself. 

There  was,  as  it  would  be,  a blaze  of  fire 
in  that  woman’s  heart,  and  she  going  the 
road  home  in  the  blackness  of  night.  The 
great  longing  of  her  soul  was  plundering 
and  desolating  her — the  longing  for  children. 
She  had  been  married  four  years,  and  hadn’t 
clann.  It’s  often  she  would  spend  the  hours 
on  her  knees,  praying  God  to  send  her  a 
child.  It’s  often  she  would  rise  from  the 
bed  in  the  night-time,  and  go  on  her  two 
naked  knees  on  the  cold,  hard  stone  making 
the  same  petition.  It’s  many  a penance 
she  used  put  on  herself  in  hopes  that  the 
torture  of  her  body  would  soften  God’s 
heart.  It’s  often  when  her  man  would  be 

l3l 


THE  MOTHER 


from  home,  that  she  would  go  to  sleep 
without  dinner  and  without  supper.  Once 
or  twice,  when  her  man  was  asleep,  she  left 
the  bed  and  went  out  and  stood  a long  while 
under  the  dew  of  the  night  sending  her 
prayer  to  the  dark,  lonesome  skies.  Once 
she  drew  blood  from  her  shoulder-blades 
with  blows  she  gave  herself  with  a switch. 
Another  time  she  stuck  thorns  into  her  flesh 
in  memory  of  the  crown  of  thorns  that  went 
on  the  brow  of  the  Saviour.  The  penances 
and  the  heart-scald  were  preying  on  her 
health.  Nobody  guessed  what  was  wrong 
with  her.  Her  own  husband — a decent, 
kindly  man — didn’t  understand  the  story 
right,  though  it’s  often  he  would  hear  her 
in  the  night  talking  to  herself  as  a mother 
would  be  talking  to  a child,  when  she  would 
feel  its  hand  or  its  mouth  at  her  breast.  Ah  ! 
it’s  many  a woman  hugs  her  heart  and 
whispers  in  the  dead  time  of  night  to  the 
child  that  isn’t  born,  and  will  not  be. 

Maire  thought  long  until  Christmas  Eve 
came.  But  as  there’s  a wearing  on  every- 
thing, so  there  was  a wearing  on  the  delay 
of  that  time.  The  day  of  Christmas  Eve 
was  tedious  to  her  until  evening  came.  She 

132 


THE  MOTHER 


swept  the  floor  of  the  house,  and  she  cleaned 
the  chairs,  and  she  made  up  a good  fire 
before  going  to  sleep.  She  left  the  door  on  the 
latch,  and  she  put  a tall,  white  candle  in  the 
window.  When  she  stretched  herself  beside 
her  man  it  wasn’t  to  sleep  it  was,  but  to 
watch.  She  thought  her  man  would  never 
sleep.  She  felt  at  last  by  the  quiet  breath 
he  was  drawing  that  he  was  gone  off. 
Then  she  got  up.  She  put  on  her  dress, 
and  she  stole  out  to  the  kitchen.  No  one 
was  there.  Not  even  a mouse  was  stirring. 
The  crickets  themselves  were  asleep.  The 
fire  was  in  red  ashes.  The  candle  was 
shining  brightly.  She  bent  on  her  knees 
in  the  room  door.  It’s  sweet  the  calm  of 
the  house  was  to  her  in  the  middle  of  the 
night,  though,  I tell  you,  it  was  terrible. 
There  came  a heightening  of  mind  on  her 
as  it  used  to  come  betimes  in  the  chapel, 
and  she  going  to  receive  communion  from 
the  priest’s  hands.  She  felt,  somehow,  that 
the  Presence  wasn’t  far  from  her,  and  that  it 
wouldn’t  be  long  until  she  would  hear  a foot- 
step. She  listened  patiently.  The  house 
itself,  she  thought,  and  what  was  in  it  both 
living  and  dead,  was  listening  as  well.  The 

*33 


THE  MOTHER 


hills  were  listening,  and  the  stones  of  the 
earth,  and  the  starry  stars  of  the  sky. 

She  heard  a sound.  A footstep  on  the 
door-flag.  She  saw  a young  woman  coming 
in  and  a child  in  her  arms.  The  young 
woman  drew  up  to  the  fire.  She  sat  down 
on  a chair.  She  began  crooning,  very  low, 
to  the  child.  Maire  recognised  the  music. 
The  tune  that  was  on  it  was  the  “ Cronan 
na  Banaltra” 

A while  to  them  like  that.  The  woman 
hugging  the  child  to  her  breast,  and  croon- 
ing, very  sweetly,  very  softly.  Maire  on 
her  two  knees,  under  the  shadow  of  the 
door.  It  wasn’t  in  her  to  speak  nor  to 
move.  She  was  barely  able  to  draw  her  breath. 

At  last  the  woman  rose.  It’s  then  Maire 
rose.  She  went  hither  to  the  woman. 

“ A Mhuire ,”  says  she,  whispering-like. 

The  woman  turned  her  countenance 
towards  her.  A lovely,  noble  countenance 
it  was. 

“ A Mhuire ,”  says  Maire  again.  “I  have 
a request  of  you.” 

“ Say  it,”  says  the  other  woman. 

“ A child  drinking  the  milk  of  my  breast,” 
says  Maire.  “Don’t  deny  me,  a Mhuire .” 

1 34 


THE  MOTHER 


“ Come  closer  to  me,”  says  the  other 
woman. 

Maire  came  closer  to  her.  The  other 
woman  raised  her  child.  The  child  stretched 
out  its  two  little  hands,  and  it  laid  a hand 
softly  on  each  cheek  of  Maire’s  two  cheeks. 

“ That  blessing  will  make  you  fruitful,” 
says  the  Mother. 

“ Its  a good  woman  you  are,  a Mhuire ,” 
says  Maire.  “ It’s  good  your  Son  is.” 

“ I leave  a blessing  in  this  house,”  says 
the  other  woman. 

She  squeezed  her  child  to  her  breast  again 
and  went  out  the  door.  Maire  fell  on  her 
knees. 


It’s  a year  since  that  Christmas  Eve.  The 
last  time  I passed  Maire’s  house  there  was 
a child  in  her  breast.  There  was  that  look 
on  her  that  doesn’t  be  on  living  soul  but  a 
mother  when  she  feels  the  mouth  of  her 
firstborn  at  her  nipple. 

“ God  loves  the  women  better  than  the 
men,”  said  I to  myself.  “ It’s  to  them  He 
sends  the  greatest  sorrows,  and  it’s  on  them 
He  bestows  the  greatest  joy.” 

*35 


THE  DEARG-DAOL 


THE  DEARG-DAOL 


A walking-man,  it  was,  come  into  my 
father’s  house  out  of  the  Joyce  Country, 
that  told  us  this  story  by  the  fireside  one 
wild  winter’s  night.  The  wind  was  wailing 
round  the  house,  like  women  keening  the 
dead,  while  he  spoke,  and  he  would  make 
his  voice  rise  or  fall  according  as  the  wind’s 
voice  would  rise  or  fall.  A tall  man  he  was, 
with  wild  eyes,  and  his  share  of  clothes 
almost  in  tatters.  There  was  a sort  of  fear 
on  me  of  him  when  he  came  in,  and  his 
story  didn’t  lessen  my  fear. 

The  three  most  blessed  beasts  in  the  world, 
says  the  walking-man,  are  the  haddock,  the 
robin  redbreast,  and  God’s  cow.  And  the 
three  most  cursed  beasts  in  the  world  are 
the  viper,  the  wren,  and  the  dearg-daol 
(“black  chafer”).  And  it’s  the  dearg-daol 
is  the  most  cursed  of  them.  ’Tis  I that 
know  that.  Woman  of  the  house,  if  a man 
would  murder  his  son,  don’t  call  him  the 
dearg-daol . If  a woman  would  come  between 
yourself  and  the  husband  of  your  bed,  don’t 
put  her  in  comparison  with  the  dearg-daoL 

1 39 


THE  DEARG-DAOL 


“ God  save  us,”  says  my  mother. 

“ Amen,  Lord,”  says  the  walking-man. 

He  didn’t  speak  again  for  a spell.  We 
all  listened,  for  we  knew  he  was  going  to 
tell  a story.  It  wasn’t  long  before  he  began. 

When  I was  a lad,  says  the  walking- 
man,  there  was  a woman  of  our  people 
that  everybody  was  afraid  of.  In  a little, 
lonely  cabin  in  a gap  of  a mountain,  it  was, 
she  lived.  No  one  would  go  near  her  house. 
She,  herself,  wouldn’t  come  next  or  near  any 
other  body’s  house.  Nobody  would  speak 
to  her  when  they  met  her  on  the  road.  She 
wouldn’t  put  word  nor  wisdom  on  anybody 
at  all.  You’d  think  a pity  to  see  the 
creature  and  she  going  the  road  alone. 

“ Who  is  she,”  I would  say  to  my  mother, 
“ or  why  wouldn’t  they  speak  to  her?” 

“ Whisht,  boy,”  my  mother  would  say  to 
me.  ct  That’s  the  Dearg-DaoL  ’Tis  a cursed 
woman  she  is.” 

“ What  did  she  do,  or  who  put  the  curse 
on  her  ? ” I would  say. 

“ A priest  of  God  that  put  the  curse  on 
her,”  my  mother  would  say.  “ No  one  in 
life  knew  what  she  did.” 

And  that’s  all  the  knowledge  I got  of 

1 40 


THE  DEARG-DAOL 


her  until  I was  a grown  chap.  And  indeed 
to  you,  neighbours,  I never  heard  anything 
about  her  but  that  she  committed  some 
dreadful  sin  at  the  start  of  her  life,  and  that 
the  priest  put  his  curse  on  her  before  the 
people  on  account  of  that  sin.  One 
Sunday,  when  the  people  were  gathered  at 
Mass,  the  priest  turned  round  on  them,  and 
says  he  : — 

“ There  is  a woman  here,”  says  he,  “ that 
will  merit  eternal  damnation  for  herself  and 
for  every  person  that  makes  familiar  with 
her.  And  I say  to  that  woman,”  says  he, 
“ that  she  is  a cursed  woman,  and  I say  to 
you,  let  you  not  have  intercourse  or  neigh- 
bourliness with  that  woman  but  as  much  as 
you’d  have  with  a dearg-daoL  Rise  up  now, 
Dearg-Daol ,”  says  he,  “ and  avoid  the  com- 
pany of  decent  people  henceforth.” 

The  poor  woman  got  up,  and  went  out 
the  chapel  door.  There  was  no  name  on 
her  from  that  out  but  the  Dearg-Daol.  Her 
own  name  and  surname  were  put  out  of  mind. 
’Twas  said  that  she  had  the  evil  eye.  If 
she’d  look  on  a calf  or  a sheep  that  wasn’t 
her  own,  the  animal  would  die.  The  women 
were  afraid  to  let  their  children  out  on  the 

141 


THE  DEARG-DAOL 

street  if  the  Dearg-Daol  was  going  the 
road. 

I married  a comely  girl  when  I was  of 
the  age  of  one-and-twenty.  We  had  a little 
slip  of  a girl,  and  we  had  hopes  of  another 
child.  One  day  when  I was  cutting  turf  in 
the  bog,  my  wife  was  feeding  the  fowl  on 
the  street,  when  she  saw — God  between  us 
and  harm — the  Dearg-Daol  making  on  her 
up  the  bohereen,  and  she  with  the  little,  soft 
pataire  of  a child  in  her  arms.  An  arm  of 
the  child  was  about  the  woman’s  neck,  and 
her  shawl  covering  her.  Speech  left  my 
wife. 

The  Dearg-Daol  laid  the  little  girl  in 
her  mother’s  breast.  My  woman  took  notice 
that  her  clothes  were  wet. 

“ What  happened  the  child  ? ” says  she. 

“ Falling  into  Lochan  na  Luachra  (the 
Pool  of  the  Rushes),  she  did  it,”  says  the 
Dearg-Daol . “ Looking  for  water-lilies  she 

was.  I was  crossing  the  road,  and  I heard 
her  scream.  In  over  the  dyke  with  me. 
It  was  only  by  dint  of  trouble  I caught 
her.” 

“ May  God  reward  you,”  says  my  wife. 
The  other  woman  went  off  before  she  had 

142 


THE  DEARG-DAOL 


time  to  say  more.  My  wife  fetched  the 
little  wee  thing  inside,  she  dried  her,  and 
put  her  to  sleep.  When  I came  in  from  the 
bog  she  told  me  the  story.  The  two  of  us 
prayed  our  blessing  on  the  Dearg-Daol  that 
night. 

The  day  after,  the  little  girl  began  prattling 
about  the  woman  that  saved  her.  “The 
water  was  in  my  mouth,  and  in  my  eyes, 
and  in  my  ears,”  says  she.  “ I saw  shining 
sparks,  and  I heard  a great  noise  ; I was 
slipping  and  slipping,”  says  she;  “and 
then,”  says  she,  “ I felt  a hand  about  me, 
and  she  lifted  me  up  and  she  kissed  me.  I 
thought  it  was  at  home,  I was,  when  I was 
in  her  arms  and  her  shawl  about  me,”  says 
she. 

A couple  of  days  after  that  my  wife 
noticed  the  little  thing  away  from  her.  We 
sought  her  for  the  length  of  two  hours. 
When  she  came  home  she  told  us  that  she 
was  after  paying  a visit  to  the  woman  that 
saved  her.  “ She  made  a cake  for  me,” 
says  she.  “ She  has  ne’er  a one  in  the  house 
at  all  but  herself,  and  she  said  to  me  I should 
go  visiting  her  every  evening.” 

Neither  I nor  my  wife  was  able  to  say  a 

x43 


THE  DEARG-DAOL 


word  against  her.  The  Dearg-Daol  was 
after  saving  our  girl’s  life,  and  it  wouldn’t 
be  natural  to  hinder  the  child  going  into  her 
house.  From  that  day  out  the  little  girl 
would  go  up  the  hill  to  her  every  day. 

The  neighbours  said  to  us  that  it  wasn’t 
right.  There  was  a sort  of  suspicion  on 
ourselves  that  it  wasn’t  right,  but  how 
could  we  help  it? 

Would  you  believe  me,  people?  From 
the  day  the  Dearg-Daol  laid  eyes  on  the 
little  girl,  she  began  dwindling  and  dwind- 
ling, like  a fire  that  wouldn’t  be  mended. 
She  lost  her  appetite  and  her  activity.  After 
a quarter  she  was  only  a shadow.  After 
another  month  she  was  in  the  churchyard. 

The  Dearg-Daol  came  down  the  moun- 
tain the  day  she  was  buried.  She  wouldn’t 
be  let  into  the  graveyard.  She  went  her 
road  up  the  mountain  again  alone.  My 
heart  bled  for  the  creature,  for  I knew  that 
our  trouble  was  no  heavier  than  her  trouble. 
I myself  went  up  the  hill  the  morning  of 
the  next  day.  I meant  to  say  to  her  that 
neither  my  wife  nor  myself  had  any  up- 
braiding for  her.  I knocked  at  the  door. 
I didn’t  get  any  answer.  I went  into  the 

144 


THE  DEARG-DAOL 


house.  The  ashes  were  red  on  the  hearth. 
There  was  no  one  at  all  to  be  seen.  I 
noticed  a bed  in  the  corner.  I went  over 
to  the  bed.  The  Dearg-Daol  was  lying 
there,  and  she  cold  dead. 

There  wasn’t  any  luck  on  me  or  on  my 
household  from  that  day  out.  My  wife 
died  a month  after  that,  and  she  in  child- 
birth. The  child  didn’t  live.  There  fell 
a murrain  on  my  cattle  the  winter  following. 
The  landlord  put  me  out  of  my  holding. 
I am  a walking  man,  and  the  roads  of 
Connacht  before  me,  from  that  day  to  this. 


THE  ROADS 


THE  ROADS 


Rossnageeragh  will  mind  till  death  the 
night  the  Dublin  Man  gave  us  the  feast  in 
the  schoolhouse  of  Turlagh  Beg.  We  had 
no  name  or  surname  for  that  same  man  ever 
but  the  “ Dublin  Man.”  Peatin  Pharaig 
would  say  to  us  that  he  was  a man  who 
wrote  for  the  newspapers.  Peatin  would 
read  the  Gaelic  paper  the  mistress  got 
every  week,  and  it’s  a small  thing  he 
hadn’t  knowledge  of,  for  there  was  discourse 
in  that  paper  on  the  doings  of  the  Western 
World  and  on  the  goings-on  of  the  Eastern 
World,  and  there  would  be  no  bounds  to 
the  information  Peatin  would  have  to  give 
us  every  Sunday  at  the  chapel  gate.  He 
would  say  to  us  that  the  Dublin  Man  had 
a stack  of  money,  for  two  hundred  pounds 
in  the  year  were  coming  to  him  out  of  the 
heart  of  that  paper  he  wrote  for  every 
week. 

The  Dublin  Man  would  pay  a fortnight’s 
or  a month’s  visit  to  Turlagh  every  year. 
This  veiy  year  he  sent  out  word  calling 

H9 


THE  ROADS 


poor  and  naked  to  a feast  he  was  gathering 
for  us  in  the  schoolhouse.  He  announced 
that  there  would  be  music  and  dancing  and 
Gaelic  speeches  in  it  ; that  there  would  be 
a piper  there  from  Carrowroe  ; that  Brigid 
ni  Mhainin  would  be  there  to  give  Conntae 
Mhuigheo ; that  Martin  the  Fisherman 
would  tell  a Fenian  story;  that  old  Una  ni 
Greelis  would  recite  a poem  if  the  creature 
wouldn’t  have  the  asthma  ; and  that  Mar- 
cuseen  Mhichil  Ruaidh  would  do  a bout 
of  dancing  unless  the  rheumatic  pains  would 
be  too  bad  on  him.  Nobody  ever  knew 
Marcuseen  to  have  the  rheumatics  but  when 
he’d  be  asked  to  dance.  “ Bedam,  but  I’m 
dead  with  the  pains  for  a week,”  he’d 
always  say  when  a dance  would  be  hinted. 
But  no  sooner  would  the  piper  start  on 
“ Tatter  Jack  Walsh,”  than  Marcuseen 
would  throw  his  old  hat  in  the  air,  “ hup  ! ” 
he’d  say,  and  take  the  floor. 

The  family  of  Col  Labhras  were  drink- 
ing tea  the  evening  of  the  feast. 

“ Will  we  go  to  the  schoolhouse  to-night, 
daddy?”  says  Cuimin  Col  to  his  father. 

“ We  will.  Father  Ronan  said  he’d  like 
all  the  people  to  go.” 

150 


savs 


THE  ROADS 

“Won’t  we  have  the  spree!’’ 
Cuimin. 

“ You’ll  stay  at  home,  Nora,”  says  the 
mother,  “ to  mind  the  child.” 

Nora  put  a lip  on  herself,  but  she  didn’t 
speak. 

After  tea  Col  and  his  wife  went  into  the 
room  to  ready  themselves  for  the  road. 

“ My  sorrow  that  it’s  not  a boy  God 
made  me,”  says  Nora  to  her  brother. 

“ Muise , why  ? ” says  Cuimin. 

“ For  one  reason  better  than  another,” 
says  Nora.  With  that  she  gave  a little 
slap  to  the  child  that  was  half-asleep  and 
half-awake  in  the  cradle.  The  child  let  a 
howl  out  of  him. 

“ Ara , listen  to  the  child,”  says  Cuimin. 
“ If  my  mother  hears  him  crying,  she’ll 
take  the  ear  off  you.” 

“ I don’t  care  if  she  takes  the  two  ears 
off  me,”  says  Nora. 

“What’s  up  with  you?”  Cuimin  was 
washing  himself,  and  he  stopped  to  look 
over  his  shoulder  at  his  sister,  and  the  water 
streaming  from  his  face. 

“ Tired  of  being  made  a little  ass  of  by 
my  mother  and  by  everybody,  I am,”  says 

l5l 


THE  ROADS 


Nora.  “I  working  from  morning  till  night, 
and  yc  at  your  case.  Ye  going  to  the 
spree  to-night,  and  I sitting  here  nursing  this 
child.  ‘You’ll  stay  at  home,  Nora,  to 
mind  the  child,’  says  my  mother.  That’s 
always  the  way.  It’s  a pity  it’s  not  a boy 
God  made  me.” 

Cuimin  was  drying  his  face  meanwhile, 
and  “ s-s-s-s-s  ” coming  out  of  him  like  a 
person  would  be  grooming  a horse. 

“ It’s  a pity,  right  enough,”  says  he, 
when  he  was  able  to  speak. 

He  threw  the  towel  from  him,  he  put 
his  head  to  one  side,  and  looked  compla- 
cently at  himself  in  the  glass  was  hanging 
on  the  wall. 

“A  parting  in  my  hair  now,”  says  he, 
“ and  I’ll  be  first-class.” 

“Are  you  ready,  Cuimin?”  says  his 
father,  coming  out  of  the  room. 

“I  am.” 

“ We’ll  be  stirring  on  then.” 

The  mother  came  out. 

“ If  he  there  is  crying,  Nora,”  says  she, 
“give  him  a drink  of  milk  out  of  the  bottle.” 

Nora  didn’t  say  a word.  She  remained 
sitting  on  the  stool  beside  the  cradle,  and  her 

152 


THE  ROADS 


chin  laid  in  her  two  hands  and  her  two 
elbows  stuck  on  her  knees.  She  heard  her 
father  and  her  mother  and  Cuimin  going  out 
the  door  and  across  the  street  ; she  knew  by 
their  voices  that  they  were  going  down  the 
bohereen.  The  voices  died  away,  and  she  un- 
derstood that  they  were  after  taking  the  road. 

Nora  began  making  fancy  pictures  in  her 
mind.  She  saw,  she  thought,  the  fine,  level 
road  and  it  white  under  the  moonlight.  The 
people  were  in  groups  making  for  the  school- 
house.  The  Rossnagceragh  folk  were  com- 
ing out  the  road,  and  the  Garumna  folk 
journeying  round  by  the  mistress’s  house, 
and  the  Kilbrickan  folk  crowding  down  the 
hill,  and  the  Turlagh  Beg’s  crowding  like- 
wise ; there  was  a band  from  Turlagh,  and 
an  odd  sprinkling  from  Glencaha,  and  one 
or  two  out  of  Inver  coming  in  the  road. 
She  imagined  her  own  people  were  at  the 
school  gate  by  now.  They  were  going  up 
the  path.  They  were  entering  in  the  door. 
The  schoolhouse  was  well-nigh  full,  and 
still  no  end  to  the  coming  of  the  people. 
There  were  lamps  hung  on  the  walls,  and 
the  house  as  bright  as  it  would  be  in  the 
middle  of  day.  Father  Ronan  was  there, 

r53 


THE  ROADS 


and  he  going  from  person  to  person  and 
bidding  welcome  to  everybody.  The  Dublin 
Man  was  there,  and  he  as  nice  and  friendly- 
like as  ever.  The  mistress  was  there,  and 
the  master  and  mistress  from  Gortmore,  and 
the  lace-instructress.  The  schoolgirls  sitting 
together  on  the  front  benches.  Weren’t 
they  to  sing  a song  ? She  saw,  she  thought, 
Maire  Sean  Mor,  and  Maire  Pheatin  Johnny, 
and  Babeen  Col  Marcus,  and  the  Boatman’s 
Brigid,  and  her  red  head  on  her,  and  Brigid 
Caitin  ni  Fhiannachta,  with  her  mouth  open 
as  usual.  The  girls  were  looking  round  and 
nudging  one  another,  and  asking  one  another 
where  was  Nora  Col  Labhras.  The  school- 
house  was  packed  to  the  door  now.  Father 
Ronan  was  striking  his  two  hands  together. 
They  were  stopping  from  talk  and  from 
whispering.  Father  Ronan  was  speaking  to 
them.  He  was  speaking  comically.  Every- 
body was  laughing.  He  was  calling  on  the 
schoolgirls  to  give  their  song.  They  were 
getting  up  and  going  to  the  head  of  the 
room  and  bowing  to  the  people. 

“ My  sorrow,  that  I’m  not  there,”  says 
poor  Nora  to  herself,  and  she  laid  her  face 
in  her  palms  and  began  crying, 

T I"  4 

1 :>4 


THE  ROADS 


She  stopped  crying,  suddenly.  She  hung 
her  head,  and  rubbed  a palm  to  her  eyes. 

It  wasn’t  right,  says  she  in  her  own  mind. 
It  wasn’t  right,  just,  or  decent.  Why  should 
she  be  kept  at  home?  Why  should  they 
always  keep  her  at  home  ? If  she  was 
a boy  she’d  be  let  out.  Since  she  was  only 
a girl  they  would  keep  her  at  home.  She 
was,  as  she  had  said  to  Cuimin  that  evening, 
only  a little  ass  of  a girl.  She  wouldn’t  put 
up  with  it  any  longer.  She  would  have  her 
own  way.  She  would  be  as  free  as  any  boy 
that  came  or  went.  It’s  often  before  that 
she  set  her  mind  to  the  deed.  She  would 
do  the  deed  that  night. 

It’s  often  Nora  thought  that  it  would  be  a 
fine  life  to  be  going  like  a flying  hawk, 
independent  of  everybody.  The  roads  of 
Ireland  before  her,  and  her  face  on  them  ; 
the  back  of  her  head  to  home  and  hardship 
and  the  vexation  of  her  people.  She  going 
from  village  to  village,  and  from  glen  to 
glen.  The  fine,  level  road  before  her,  fields 
on  both  sides  of  her,  little,  well-sheltered 
houses  on  the  slopes  of  the  hills.  If  she’d 
get  tired  she  could  stretch  back  by  the  side 
of  a ditch,  or  she  could  go  into  some  house 

l55 


THE  ROADS 


and  ask  the  good  woman  for  a drink  of  milk 
and  a seat  by  the  fire.  To  make  the  night’s 
sleep  in  some  wood  under  the  shadow  of 
trees,  and  to  rise  early  in  the  morning  and 
stretch  out  again  under  the  lovely  fresh  air. 
If  she  wanted  food  (and  it’s  likely  she  would 
want  it),  she  would  do  a day’s  work  here 
and  a day’s  work  there,  and  she  would  be 
full-satisfied  if  she  got  a cup  of  tea  and  a 
crumb  of  bread  in  payment  for  it.  Wouldn’t 
it  be  a fi  ne  life  that,  besides  being  a little  ass 
of  a girl  at  home,  feeding  the  hens  and 
minding  the  child  ! 

It’s  not  as  a girl  she’d  go,  but  as  a boy. 
No  one  in  life  would  know  that  it’s  not  a 
boy  was  in  it.  When  she’d  cut  her  hair 
and  put  on  herself  a suit  of  Cuimin’s 
bawneens,  who  would  know  that  it’s  a girl 
she  was  ? 

It’s  often  Nora  took  that  counsel  to  her- 
self, but  the  fear  would  never  let  her  put  it 
in  practice.  She  never  had  right  leave  for 
it.  Her  mother  would  always  be  in  the 
house,  and  no  sooner  would  she  be  gone 
than  she’d  feel  wanted.  But  she  had  leave 
now.  None  of  them  would  be  back  in  the 
house  for  another  hour  of  the  clock,  at  the 

li6 


THE  ROADS 


least.  She’d  have  a power  of  time  to  change 
her  clothes,  and  to  go  off  unbeknown  to  the 
world.  She  would  meet  nobody  on  the  road, 
for  all  the  people  were  gathered  in  the 
schoolhouse.  She  would  have  time  to  go 
as  far  as  Ellery  to-night  and  to  sleep  in  the 
wood.  She  would  rise  early  on  the  morrow 
morning,  and  she  would  take  the  road  before 
anybody  would  be  astir. 

She  jumped  from  the  stool.  There  were 
scissors  in  the  drawer  of  the  dresser.  It 
wasn’t  long  till  she  had  a hold  of  them,  and 
snip  ! snap  ! She  cut  off  her  back  hair, 
and  the  fringe  that  was  on  her  brow,  and 
each  ringleted  tress  that  was  on  her,  in  one 
attack.  She  looked  at  herself  in  the  glass. 
A inghean  O ! isn’t  it  bald  and  bare  she  looked. 
She  gathered  the  curls  of  hair  from  the 
floor,  and  she  hid  them  in  an  old  box.  Over 
with  her  then  to  the  place  where  a clean 
suit  of  bawneens  belonging  to  Cuimin  was 
hanging  on  a nail.  Down  with  her  on  her 
knees  searching  for  a shirt  of  Cuimin’s  that 
was  in  a lower  drawer  of  the  dresser.  She 
threw  the  clothes  on  the  floor  beside  the  fire. 

Here  she  is  now  taking  off  her  own  share 
of  clothes  in  a hurry.  She  threw  her 

1 57 


THE  ROADS 


dress  and  her  little  blouse  and  her  shift  into 
a chest  that  was  under  the  table.  She  put 
Cuimin’s  shirt  on  herself.  She  stuck  her 
legs  into  the  breeches,  and  she  pulled  them 
up  on  herself.  She  minded  then  that  she 
had  neither  belt  nor  gallowses.  She’d  have 
to  make  a belt  out  of  an  old  piece  of  cord. 
She  put  the  jacket  on  herself.  She  looked 
in  the  glass,  and  she  started.  It’s  how  she 
thought  Cuimin  was  before  her  ! She 
looked  over  her  shoulder,  but  she  didn’t 
see  anybody.  It’s  then  she  minded  that  it’s 
her  own  self  was  looking  at  her,  and  she 
laughed.  But  if  she  did  itself,  she  was  a 
little  scared.  If  she’d  a cap  now  she’d  be 
ready  for  the  road.  Yes,  she  knew  where 
there  was  an  old  cap  of  Cuimin’s.  She  got 
it,  and  put  it  on  her  head.  Farewell  for 
ever  now  to  the  old  life,  and  a hundred 
welcomes  to  the  new  ! 

When  she  was  at  the  door  she  turned 
back  and  she  crept  over  to  the  cradle.  The 
child  was  sound  asleep.  She  bent  down 
and  she  gave  a kiss  to  the  baby,  a little, 
little,  light  kiss  in  on  his  forehead.  She 
stole  on  the  tips  of  her  toes  to  the  door, 
opened  it  gently,  went  out  on  the  street, 


THE  ROADS 


and  shut  the  door  quietly  after  her.  Across 
the  street  with  her,  and  down  the  bohereen. 
It  was  short  till  she  took  the  road  to  her- 
self. She  pressed  on  then  towards  Turlagh 

Beg- 

It  was  short  till  she  saw  the  schoolhouse 
by  the  side  of  the  road.  There  was  a fine 
light  burning  through  the  windows.  She 
heard  a noise,  as  if  they’d  be  laughing  and 
clapping  hands  within.  Over  across  the 
fence  with  her,  and  up  the  school  path. 
She  went  round  to  the  back  of  the  house. 
The  windows  were  high  enough,  but  she 
raised  herself  up  till  she’d  a view  of  what 
was  going  on  inside.  Father  Ronan  was 
speaking.  He  stopped,  and  O,  Lord  ! — 
the  people  began  getting  up.  It  was  plain 
that  the  fun  was  over,  and  that  they  were 
about  to  separate  to  go  home.  What 
would  she  do,  if  she’d  be  seen  ? 

She  threw  a leap  from  the  window.  Her 
foot  slipped  from  her,  coming  down  on  the 
ground,  and  she  got  a drop.  She  very 
nearly  screamed  out,  but  she  minded  herself 
in  time.  Her  knee  was  a little  hurt,  she 
thought.  The  people  were  out  on  the 
school  yard  by  that.  She  must  stay  in 

J59 


THE  ROADS 


hiding  till  they  were  all  gone.  She  moved 
into  the  wall  as  close  as  she  could.  She 
heard  the  people  talking  and  laughing,  and 
she  knew  that  they  were  scattering  after 
one  another. 

What  was  that?  The  voices  of  people 
coming  towards  her  ; the  sound  of  a foot- 
step on  the  path  beside  her  ! It’s  then  she 
minded  that  there  was  a short-cut  across 
the  back  of  the  house,  and  that  there  might 
be  some  people  going  the  short-cut.  Likely, 
her  own  people  would  be  going  that  way, 
for  it  was  a little  shorter  than  round  by 
the  high  road.  A little  knot  came  towards 
her  ; she  recognized  by  their  voices  that 
they  were  Peatin  Johnny’s  people.  They 
passed.  Another  little  knot ; the  Boatman’s 
family.  They  drew  that  close  to  her  that 
Eamonn  trod  on  her  poor,  bare,  little  foot. 
She  almost  let  a cry  out  of  her  the  second 
time,  but  she  didn’t — she  only  squeezed 
herself  tighter  to  the  wall.  Another  crowd 
was  coming : O,  Great  God,  her  own 

people  ! Cuimin  was  saying,  “ Wasn’t  it 
wonderful,  Marcuseen’s  dancing  ! ” Her 
mother’s  dress  brushed  Nora’s  cheek  going 
by  : she  didn’t  draw  her  breath  all  that 

1 60 


THE  ROADS 


time.  A company  or  two  more  went 
past.  She  listened  for  a spell.  Nobody 
else  was  coming.  It’s  how  they  were  all 
gone,  said  she  to  herself.  Out  with  her 
from  her  hiding-place,  and  she  tore  across 
the  path.  Plimp  ! She  ran  against  some- 
body. Two  big  hands  were  about  her. 
She  heard  a man’s  voice.  She  recognized 
the  voice.  The  priest  that  was  in  it. 

“Who  have  I?”  says  Father  Ronan. 

She  told  a lie.  What  else  had  she  to 
say  ? 


“ Cuimin  Col  Labhras,  Father,”  says  she. 

He  laid  a hand  on  each  shoulder  of  her, 
and  looked  down  on  her.  She  had  her 
head  bent. 

“ I thought  you  went  home  with  your 
father  and  mother,”  says  he. 

“ I did.  Father,  but  I lost  my  cap  and  I 
came  back  looking  for  it.” 

“ Isn’t  your  cap  on  your  head?” 

“ I found  it  on  the  path.” 

“ Aren’t  your  father  and  mother  gone 
the  short-cut  ? ” 

“ They  are,  Father,  but  I am  going  the 
road  so  that  I’ll  be  with  the  other  boys.” 

“ Off  with  you,  then,  or  the  ghosts’ll 

1 6 1 M 


THE  ROADS 


catch  you  ! ” With  that  Father  Ronan 
let  her  go  from  him. 

“ May  God  give  you  good-night,  Father,” 
says  she.  She  didn’t  mind  to  take  off  her 
cap,  but  it’s  how  she  curtseyed  to  the 
priest  after  the  manner  of  girls  ! If  the 
priest  took  notice  of  that  much  he  hadn’t 
time  to  say  a word,  for  she  was  gone  in  the 
turning  of  your  hand. 

Her  two  cheeks  were  red-hot  with  shame, 
and  she  giving  face  on  the  road.  She  was 
after  telling  four  big  lies  to  the  priest  ! 
She  was  afraid  that  those  lies  were  a 
terrible  sin  on  her  soul.  She  was  afraid 
going  that  lonesome  road  in  the  dark- 
ness of  the  night,  and  that  burthen  on 
her  heart.  The  night  was  very  black. 
There  was  a little  brightening  on  her  right 
hand.  The  lake  of  Turlagh  Beg  that  was 
in  it.  There  rose  some  bird,  a curlew  or  a 
snipe,  from  the  brink  of  the  lake,  letting 
mournful  cries  out  of  it.  Nora  started 
when  she  heard  the  bird’s  voice,  that 
suddenly,  and  the  drumming  of  its  wings. 
She  hurried  on,  and  her  heart  beating  against 
her  breast.  She  left  Turlagh  Beg  behind 
her,  and  faced  the  long,  straight  road  that 

162 


THE  ROADS 


leads  to  the  Crosses  of  Kilbrickan.  It’s 
with  trouble  she  recognized  the  shape  of  the 
houses  on  the  hill  when  she  reached  the 
Crosses.  There  was  a light  in  the  house  of 
Peadar  O Neachtain,  and  she  heard  voices 
from  the  side  of  Snamh-Bo.  She  followed 
on,  drawing  on  Turlagh.  When  she  reached 
the  Bog  Hill  the  moon  came  out,  and  she 
saw  from  her  the  scar  of  the  hills.  There 
came  a great  cloud  across  the  face  of  the 
moon,  and  it  seemed  to  her  that  it’s  double 
dark  the  night  was  then.  Terror  seized  her, 
for  she  minded  that  Cnoc-a’-Leachta  (the 
Hill  of  the  Grave)  wasn’t  far  off,  and  that 
the  graveyard  would  be  on  her  right  hand 
then.  It’s  often  she  heard  that  was  an 
evil  place  in  the  middle  of  the  night.  She 
sharpened  her  pace  ; she  began  running. 
She  thought  that  she  was  being  followed  ; 
that  there  was  a bare-footed  woman  tread- 
ing almost  on  her  heels  ; that  there  was  a 
thin,  black  man  travelling  alongside  her  ; 
that  there  was  a child,  and  a white  shirt  on 
him,  going  the  road  before  her.  She  opened 
her  mouth  to  let  a screech  out  of  her,  but 
there  didn’t  come  a sound  from  her.  She 
was  in  a cold  sweat.  Her  legs  were  bending 


THE  ROADS 


under  her.  She  nearly  fell  in  a heap  on 
the  road.  She  was  at  Cnoc-a’-Leachta 
about  that  time.  It  seemed  to  her  that 
Cill  Eoin  was  full  of  ghosts.  She  minded 
the  word  the  priest  said  “ Have  a care,  or 
the  ghosts’ll  catch  you.”  They  were  on 
her  ! She  heard,  she  thought,  the  “ plub- 
plab  ” of  naked  feet  on  the  road.  She 
turned  to  her  left  hand  and  she  gave  a leap 
over  the  ditch.  She  went  near  to  being 
drowned  in  a deal-hole  that  was  between 

v 

her  and  the  wood,  unbeknown  to  her.  She 
twisted  her  foot  trying  to  save  herself,  and 
she  felt  pain.  On  with  her,  reeling.  She 
was  in  the  fields  of  Ellery  then.  She  saw 
the  lamp  of  the  lake  through  the  branches. 
A tree-root  took  a stumble  out  of  her,  and 
she  fell.  She  lost  her  senses. 

• ••••••• 

After  a very  long  time  she  imagined  that 
the  place  was  filled  with  a sort  of  half-light, 
a light  that  was  between  the  light  of  the 
sun  and  the  light  of  the  moon.  She  saw, 
very  clearly,  the  feet  of  the  trees,  and  them 
dark  against  a yellowish-green  sky.  She 
never  saw  a sky  of  that  colour  before,  and  it 
was  beautiful  to  her.  She  heard  a footstep, 

164 


THE  ROADS 


and  she  understood  that  there  was  someone 
coming  towards  her  up  from  the  lake.  She 
knew  in  some  manner  that  a prodigious 
miracle  was  about  to  be  shown  her,  and  that 
someone  was  to  suffer  there  some  awful 
passion.  She  hadn’t  long  to  wait  till  she 
saw  a young  man  struggling  wearily  through 
the  tangle  of  the  wood.  He  had  his  head 
bent,  and  the  appearance  of  great  sorrow  on 
him.  Nora  recognised  him.  The  Son  of 
Mary  that  was  in  it,  and  she  knew  that  He 
was  journeying  all  alone  to  His  death. 

The  Man  threw  himself  on  His  knees,  and 
He  began  praying.  Nora  didn’t  hear  one 
word  from  Him,  but  she  understood  in  her 
heart  what  He  was  saying.  He  was  asking 
H is  Eternal  Father  to  send  someone  to  Him 
who  would  side  with  Him  against  His 
enemies,  and  who  would  bear  half  of  His 
burthen.  Nora  wished  to  rise  and  to  go  to 
Him,  but  she  couldn’t  stir  out  of  the  place 
she  was  in. 

She  heard  a noise,  and  the  place  was  filled 
with  armed  men.  She  saw  dark,  devilish 
faces  and  grey  swords  and  edged  weapons. 
The  gentle  Man  was  seized  outrageously, 
and  His  share  of  clothes  torn  from  Him,  and 

i65 


THE  ROADS 


He  was  scourged  with  scourges  there  till  His 
body  was  in  a bloody  mass  and  in  an  ever- 
lasting wound  from  His  head  to  the  soles  of 
His  feet.  A thorny  crown  was  put  then  on 
His  gentle  head,  and  a cross  was  laid  on  His 
shoulders,  and  He  went  before  Him,  heavy- 
footed,  pitifully,  the  sorrowful  way  of  His 
journey  to  Calvary.  The  chain  that  was 
tying  Nora’s  tongue  and  limbs  till  that  broke, 
and  she  cried  aloud  : 

“ Let  me  go  with  You,  Jesus,  and  carry 
Your  cross  for  You  ! ” 

• ••••• 

She  felt  a hand  on  her  shoulder.  She 
looked  up.  She  saw  her  father’s  face. 

“ What’s  on  my  little  girl,  or  why  did 
she  go  from  us?  ” says  her  father’s  voice. 

He  lifted  her  in  hisarms  and  he  brought  her 
home.  She  lay  on  her  bed  till  the  end  of  a 
month  after  that.  She  was  out  of  her  mind 
for  half  of  that  time,  and  she  thought  at  times 
that  she  was  going  the  road,  like  a lone, 
wild-goose,  and  asking  knowledge  of  the 
way  of  people ; and  she  thought  at  other 
times  that  she  was  lying  in  under  a tree  in 
Ellery,  and  that  she  was  watching  again  the 
passion  of  that  gentle  Man,  and  she  trying 

1 66 


THE  ROADS 


to  help  Him,  but  without  power  to  help 
him.  That  wandering  went  out  of  her 
mind  at  long  last,  and  she  understood  she 
was  at  home  again.  And  when  she  recog- 
nised her  mother’s  face  her  heart  was  filled 
with  consolation,  and  she  asked  her  to  put 
the  child  into  the  bed  with  her,  and  when 
he  was  put  into  the  bed  she  kissed  him 
lovingly. 

“ Oh,  mameen,”  says  she,  “ I thought  I 
wouldn’t  see  you  or  my  father  or  Cuimin  or 
the  child  ever  again.  Were  ye  here  all 
that  time  ? ” 

“ We  were,  white  lamb,”  says  her  mother. 

“ I’ll  stay  in  the  place  where  ye  are,”  says 
she.  “ Oh,  mameen,  heart,  the  roads  were 
very  dark.  . . . And  I’ll  never  strike 

the  child  again,” — and  she  gave  him  another 
little  kiss. 

The  child  put  his  arm  about  her  neck, 
and  he  curled  himself  up  in  the  bed  at  his 
full  ease. 


167 


BRIGID  OF  THE  SONGS 


BRIGID  OF  THE  SONGS 


Brigid  of  the  Songs  was  the  most  famous 
singer  in  Rossnageeragh,  not  only  in  my 
time  but  in  my  father’s  time.  It’s  said 
that  she  could  wile  the  song-thrush  from 
the  branch  with  the  sweetness  of  the  music 
that  God  gave  her ; and  I would  believe  it, 
for  it’s  often  she  wiled  me  and  other  lads 
besides  from  our  dinner  or  our  supper.  I’d 
be  a rich  man  to-day  if  I had  a shilling  for 
every  time  I stopped  outside  her  door,  on 
my  way  home  from  school,  listening  to  her 
share  of  songs ; and  my  father  told  me  that 
it’s  often  and  often  he  did  the  same  thing 
when  he  was  a lad  going  to  school.  It  was 
a tradition  among  the  people  that  it  was 
from  Raftery  himself  that  Brigid  learned 
“ Conntae  Mhuigheo"  (The  County  of  Mayo), 
and  isn’t  it  with  the  “ Conntae  Mhuigheo ” 
that  she  drew  the  big  tears  out  of  the  eyes 
of  John  MacHale  one  time  he  was  on  a visit 
here,  along  with  our  own  Bishop,  a year 
exactly  before  I was  born  ? 

A thing  that’s  no  wonder,  when  we  heard 

I71 


BRIGID  OF  THE  SONGS 

that  there  was  to  be  a Feis  in  Moykeeran, 
we  all  settled  in  our  minds  that  it’s  Brigid 
would  have  the  prize  for  the  singing,  if 
she’d  enter  for  it.  There  was  no  other 
person,  neither  men-singers  nor  women- 
singers,  half  as  good  as  she  was  in  the  seven 
parishes.  She  couldn’t  be  beaten,  if  right 
was  to  be  done.  She  would  put  wonder- 
ment on  the  people  of  Moykeeran  and  on 
the  grand  folk  would  be  in  it  out  of  Galway 
and  out  of  Tuam.  She  would  earn  name 
and  fame  for  Rossnageeragh.  She  would 
win  the  prize  easy,  and  she  would  be  sent 
to  Dublin  to  sing  a song  at  the  Oireachtas. 
There  was  a sort  of  hesitation  on  Brigid  at 
first.  She  was  too  old,  she  said.  Her 
voice  wasn’t  as  good  as  it  used  be.  She 

hadn’t  her  wind.  A share  of  her  songs 
were  going  out  of  her  memory.  She  didn’t 
want  a prize.  Didn’t  the  men  of  Ireland 
know  that  she  was  the  best  singer  in  Iar- 
Connacht?  Didn’t  Raftery  praise  her, 
didn’t  Colm  Wallace  make  a song  in  her 
honour,  didn’t  she  draw  tears  out  of  the 
eyes  of  John  MacHale  ? Brigid  said  that 
much  and  seven  times  more ; but  it  was 
plain,  at  the  same  time,  that  there  was  a 

172 


BRIGID  OF  THE  SONGS 


wish  on  her  to  go  to  the  Feis,  and  we  all 
knew  that  she  would  go.  To  make  a short 
story  of  it,  we  were  at  her  until  we  took  a 
promise  out  of  her  that  she  would  go. 

She  went.  It’s  well  I remember  the  day 
of  the  Feis.  The  world  of  Ireland  was 
there,  you’d  think.  The  house  was  over- 
flowing with  poor  people  and  with  rich 
people,  with  noble  folk  and  with  lowly  folk, 
with  strong,  active  youths,  and  with 
withered,  done  old  people.  There  were 
priests  and  friars  there  from  every  art. 
There  were  doctors  and  lawyers  there  from 
Tuam  and  from  Galway  and  from  Uachtar 
Ard.  There  were  newspaper  people  there 
from  Dublin.  There  was  a lord’s  son  there 
from  England.  The  full  of  people  went 
up,  singing  songs.  Brigid  went  up.  We 
were  at  the  back  of  the  house,  listening  to 
her.  She  began.  There  was  a little 
bashfulness  on  her  at  the  start,  and  her 
voice  was  too  low.  But  she  came  to 
herself  in  time,  according  as  she  was  stirring 
out  into  the  song,  and  she  took  tears  out 
of  the  eyes  of  the  gathering  with  the  last 
verse.  There  was  great  cheering  when  she 
had  finished,  and  she  coming  down.  We 

*73 


BRIGID  OF  THE  SONGS 


put  a shout  out  of  us  you’d  think  would 
crack  the  roof  of  the  house.  A young  girl 
went  up.  Her  voice  was  a long  way  better 
than  Brigid’s,  but,  we  thought,  there  was 
not  the  same  sadness  nor  sweetness  in  the 
song  as  there  was  in  Brigid’s.  She  came 
down.  The  people  cheered  again,  but  I 
didn’t  notice  that  anybody  was  crying.  One 
of  the  judges  got  up.  He  praised  Brigid 
greatly.  He  praised  the  young  girl  greatly, 
too.  He  was  very  tedious. 

“ Who  won  the  prize  ? ” says  one  of  us  at 
last,  when  our  share  of  patience  was 
exhausted. 

“ Oh,  the  prize  ! ” says  he.  “ Well,  in 
regard  to  the  prize,  we  are  giving  it  to 
Nora  Cassidy  (the  young  girl),  but  we 
are  considering  the  award  of  a special  prize 
to  Brigid  ni  Mhainin  (our  Brigid).  Nora 
Cassidy  will  be  sent  to  Dublin  to  sing  a song 
at  the  Oireachtas.” 

The  Moykeeran  people  applauded,  for  it 
was  out  of  Moykeeran  that  Nora  Cassidy 
was.  We  didn’t  say  anything.  We  looked 
over  at  Brigid.  Her  face  was  grey-white, 
and  she  trembling  in  every  limb. 

“What  did  you  say,  sir,  please?” 

1 74- 


says 


BRIGID  OF  THE  SONGS 


she  in  a strange  voice.  “ Is  it  I that  have 
the  prize  ? ” 

“ We  are  considering  the  award  of  a 
special  prize  to  you,  my  good  woman,  as 
you  shaped  so  excellently — you  did  that, — 
but  it’s  to  Nora  Cassidy  that  the  Feis  prize 
is  given.” 

Brigid  didn’t  speak  a word  ; but  it’s  how 
she  rose  up,  and  without  looking  either  to 
the  right  hand  or  to  the  left,  she  went  out 
the  door.  She  took  the  road  to  Rossna- 
geeragh,  and  she  was  before  us  when  we 
reached  the  village  late  in  the  night. 
«■*..• 

The  Oireachtas  was  to  be  in  Dublin  the 
week  after.  We  were  a sad  crowd,  re- 
membering that  Brigid  of  the  Songs  wouldn’t 
be  there.  We  were  full  sure  that  fair  play 
wasn’t  done  her  in  Moykeeran,  and  we 
thought  that  if  she’d  go  to  Dublin  she’d 
get  satisfaction.  But  alas  ! we  had  no 
money  to  send  her  there,  and  if  we  had 
itself  we  knew  that  she  wouldn’t  take  it 
from  us.  We  were  arguing  the  question  one 
evening  at  the  gable  of  the  Boatman’s  house, 
when  who  should  come  up  but  little  Martin 
Connolly,  at  a full  run,  and  he  said  to  us 

l7S 


BRIGID  OF  THE  SONGS 


that  Brigid  of  the  Songs  was  gone,  the  lock 
on  the  door,  and  no  tale  or  tidings  to  be  got 
of  her. 

We  didn’t  know  what  happened  her 
until  a fortnight’s  time  after  that.  Here’s 
how  it  fell  out.  When  she  heard  that  the 
Oireachtas  was  to  be  in  Dublin  on  such  a 
day,  she  said  to  herself  that  she  would  be 
there  if  she  lived.  She  didn’t  let  on  to 
anyone,  but  went  off  with  herself  in  the 
night-time,  walking.  She  had  only  a florin 
piece  in  her  pocket.  She  didn’t  know 
where  Dublin  was,  nor  how  far  it  was 
away.  She  followed  her  nose,  it’s  like, 
asking  the  road  of  the  people  she  met, 
tramping  always,  until  she’d  left  behind  her 
Cashlagh,  and  Spiddal,  and  Galway,  and 
Oranmore,  and  Athenry,  and  Kilconnell, 
and  Ballinasloe,  and  Athlone,  and  Mullingar, 
and  Maynooth,  until  at  last  she  saw  from 
her  the  houses  of  Dublin.  It’s  like  that  her 
share  of  money  was  spent  long  before  that, 
and  nobody  will  ever  know  how  the  creature 
lived  on  that  long,  lonesome  journey.  But 
one  evening  when  the  Oireachtas  was  in  full 
swing  in  the  big  hall  in  Dublin,  a country- 
woman was  seen  coming  in  the  door,  her 

176 


BRIGID  OF  THE  SONGS 


feet  cut  and  bleeding  with  the  hard  stones 
of  the  road,  her  share  of  clothes  speckled 
with  dust  and  dirt,  and  she  weary,  worn-out 
and  exhausted. 

She  sat  down.  People  were  singing  in 
the  old  style.  Brigid  ni  Mhainin  from 
Rossnageeragh  was  called  on  (for  we  had 
entered  her  name  in  hopes  that  we’d  be 
able  to  send  her).  The  old  woman  rose, 
went  up,  and  started  “ Conntae  Mhuigheo .” 

When  she  finished  the  house  was  in  one 
ree-raw  with  shouts,  it  was  that  fine.  She 
was  told  to  sing  another  song.  She 
began  on  the  “ Sail  Og  Ruadh  ” (The 
Red  Willow).  She  had  only  the  first 
line  of  the  second  verse  said  when  there 
came  some  wandering  in  her  head.  She 
stopped  and  she  began  again.  The  wander- 
ing came  on  her  a second  time,  then  a 
trembling,  and  she  fell  in  a faint  on  the 
stage.  She  was  carried  out  of  the  hall. 
A doctor  came  to  examine  her. 

“ She  is  dying  from  the  hunger  and  the 
hardship,”  says  he. 

While  that  was  going  on,  great  shouts 
were  heard  inside  the  hall.  One  of  the 
judges  came  out  in  a hurry. 

1 77 


N 


BRIGID  OF  THE  SONGS 


“You  have  won  the  first  prize!” 
says  he.  “You  did”  — . He  stopped 
suddenly. 

A priest  was  on  his  knees  bending  over 
Brigid.  He  raised  his  hand  and  he  gave 
the  absolution. 

“ She  has  won  a greater  reward  than  the 
first  prize,”  says  he. 


178 


THE  THIEF 


THE  THIEF 


One  day  when  the  boys  of  Gortmore  were 
let  out  from  school,  after  the  Glencaha  boys 
and  the  Derrybanniv  boys  had  gone  east,  the 
Turlagh  boys  and  the  Inver  boys  stayed  to 
have  a while’s  chat  before  separating  at  the 
Rossnageeragh  road.  The  master’s  house 
is  exactly  at  the  head  of  the  road,  its  back 
to  the  hill  and  its  face  to  Loch  Ellery. 

“ I heard  that  the  master’s  bees  were 
swarming,”  says  Michileen  Bartly  Enda. 

“ In  with  you  into  the  garden  till  we 
look  at  them,”  says  Daragh  Barbara  of  the 
Bridge. 

“ I’m  afraid,”  says  Michileen. 

“ What  are  you  afraid  of?  ” says  Daragh. 

“ By  my  word,  the  master  and  the  mistress 
will  be  out  presently.” 

“ Who’ll  stay  to  give  us  word  when  the 
master  will  be  coming?  ” says  Daragh. 

“ I will,”  says  little  Anthony  Manning. 

“ That’ll  do,”  says  Daragh.  “ Let  a 
whistle  when  you  see  him  leaving  the  school.” 

In  over  the  fence  with  him.  In  over  the 
fence  with  the  other  boys  after  him. 

1 8 1 


THE  THIEF 


“ Have  a care  that  none  of  you  will  get 
a sting,”  says  Anthony. 

“ Little  fear,”  says  Daragh.  And  off 
forever  with  them. 

Anthony  sat  on  the  fence,  and  his  back  to 
the  road.  He  could  see  the  master  over  his 
right  shoulder  if  he’d  leave  the  schoolhouse. 
What  a nice  garden  the  master  had,  thought 
Anthony.  He  had  rose-trees  and  gooseberry- 
trees  and  apple-trees.  He  had  little  white 
stones  round  the  path.  He  had  big  white 
stones  in  a pretty  rockery,  and  moss  and 
maiden-hair  fern  and  common  fern  growing 
between  them.  He  had 

Anthony  saw  a wonder  greater  than  any 
wonder  the  master  had  in  the  garden.  He 
saw  a little,  beautiful  wee  house  under  the 
shade  of  one  of  the  rose-trees ; it  made  of 
wood ; two  storys  in  it ; white  colour  on 
the  lower  story  and  red  colour  on  the  upper 
story ; a little  green  door  on  it ; three 
windows  of  glass  on  it,  one  downstairs  and 
two  upstairs  ; house  furniture  in  it,  between 
tables  and  chairs  and  beds  and  delf,  and  the 
rest ; and,  says  Anthony  to  himself,  look  at 
the  lady  of  the  house  sitting  in  the  door  ! 

Anthony  never  saw  a doll’s  house  before, 

182 


THE  THIEF 


and  it  was  a wonder  to  him,  its  neatness  and 
order,  for  a toy.  He  knew  that  it  belonged 
to  the  master’s  little  girl,  little  Nance.  A pity 
that  his  own  little  sister  hadn’t  one  like  it — 
Eibhlin,  the  creature,  that  was  stretched  on 
her  bed  for  a long  three  months,  and  she 
weak  and  sick  ! A pity  she  hadn’t  the  doll 
itself!  Anthony  put  the  covetousness  of  his 
heart  in  that  doll  for  Eibhlin.  He  looked 
over  his  right  shoulder — neither  master  nor 
mistress  was  to  be  seen.  He  looked  over 
his  left  shoulder — the  other  boys  were  out 
of  sight.  He  didn’t  think  the  second 
thought.  He  gave  his  best  leap  from  the 
fence  ; he  seized  the  doll ; he  stuck  it  under 
his  jacket  ; he  clambered  out  over  the  ditch 
again,  and  away  with  him  home. 

“ I have  a present  for  you,”  says  he  to 
Eibhlin,  when  he  reached  the  house. 
“ Look  ! ” and  with  that  he  showed  her  the 
doll. 

There  came  a blush  on  the  wasted  cheeks 
of  the  little  sick  girl,  and  a light  into  her  eyes. 

“ Ora , Anthony,  love,  where  did  you  get 
it  ? ” says  she. 

“ The  master’s  little  Nance,  that  sent  it  to 
you  for  a present,”  says  Anthony. 


THE  THIEF 


Their  mother  came  in. 

“ Oh,  mameen,  treasure,”  says  Eibhlin, 
“ look  at  the  present  that  the  master’s  little 
Nance  sent  me  ! ” 

“ In  earnest?  ” says  the  mother. 

“ Surely,”  says  Eibhlin.  “ Anthony,  it 
was,  that  brought  it  in  to  me  now.” 

Anthony  looked  down  at  his  feet,  and 
began  counting  the  toes  that  were  on  them. 

“ My  own  pet,”  says  the  mother,  “ isn’t 
it  she  that  was  good  to  you  ! Muise , Nance  ! 
I’ll  go  bail  that  that  present  will  put  great 
improvement  on  my  little  girl.” 

And  there  came  tears  in  the  mother’s  eyes 
out  of  gratitude  to  little  Nance  because  she 
remembered  the  sick  child.  Though  he 
wasn’t  able  to  look  his  mother  between  the 
eyes,  or  at  Eibhlin,  with  the  dint  of  fear, 
Anthony  was  glad  that  he  committed  the 
theft. 

He  was  afraid  to  say  his  prayers  that 
night,  and  he  lay  down  on  his  bed  without 
as  much  as  an  “ Our  Father.”  He  couldn’t 
say  the  Act  of  Contrition,  for  it  wasn’t 
truthfully  he’d  be  able  to  say  to  God  that 
he  was  sorry  for  that  sin.  It’s  often  he 
started  in  the  night,  imagining  that  little 

i 84 


THE  THIEF 


Nance  was  coming  seeking  the  doll  from 
Eibhlin,  that  the  master  was  taxing  him 
with  the  robbery  before  the  school,  that 
there  was  a miraculous  swarm  of  bees  rising 
against  him,  and  Daragh  Barbara  of  the 
Bridge  and  the  other  boys  exciting  them 
with  shouts  and  with  the  music  of  drums. 
But  the  next  morning  he  said  to  himself: 
“ I don’t  care.  The  doll  will  make  Eibhlin 
better.” 

When  he  went  to  school  the  boys  asked 
him  why  he  went  off  unawares  the  evening 
before  that,  and  he  after  promising  them 
he’d  keep  watch. 

“ My  mother  sent  for  me,”  says  Anthony. 
“ She’d  a task  for  me.” 

When  little  Nance  came  into  the  school, 
Anthony  looked  at  her  under  his  brows. 
He  fancied  that  she  was  after  being  crying  ; 
he  thought  that  he  saw  the  track  of  the 
tears  on  her  cheeks.  The  first  time  the 
master  called  him  by  his  name  he  jumped, 
because  he  thought  that  he  was  going  to  tax 
him  with  the  fault  or  to  cross-question  him 
about  the  doll.  He  never  put  in  as  miserable 
a day  as  that  day  at  school.  But  when  he 
went  home  and  saw  the  great  improvement 


THE  THIEF 


on  Eibhlin,  and  she  sitting  up  in  the  bed  for 
the  first  time  for  a month,  and  the  doll 
clasped  in  her  arms,  says  he  to  himself : “ I 
don’t  care.  The  doll  is  making  Eibhlin 
better.” 

In  his  bed  in  the  night-time  he  had  bad 
dreams  again.  He  thought  that  the  master 
was  after  telling  the  police  that  he  stole  the 
doll,  and  that  they  were  on  his  track  ; he 
imagined  one  time  that  there  was  a police- 
man hiding  under  the  bed  and  that  there 
was  another  hunkering  behind  the  window- 
curtain.  He  screamed  out  in  his  sleep. 

“ What’s  on  you?”  says  his  father  to 

him. 

“ The  peeler  that’s  going  to  take  me,” 
says  Anthony. 

“ You’re  only  rambling,  boy,”  says  his 
father  to  him.  “ There’s  no  peeler  in  it. 
Go  to  sleep.” 

There  was  the  misery  of  the  world  on  the 
poor  fellow  from  that  out.  He  used  think 
they  would  be  pointing  fingers  at  him,  and 
he  going  the  road.  He  used  think  they 
would  be  shaking  their  heads  and  saying 
to  each  other,  “ There’s  a thief,”  or,  “ Did 
you  hear  what  Anthony  Pharaig  Manning 

1 86 


THE  THIEF 


did  ? Her  doll  he  stole  from  the  master’s 
little  Nance.  Now  what  do  you  say?” 
But  he  didn’t  suffer  rightly  till  he  went  to 
Mass  on  Sunday  and  till  Father  Ronan 
started  preaching  a sermon  on  the  Seventh 
Commandment : cc  Thou  shalt  not  steal ; and 
if  you  commit  a theft  it  will  not  be  forgiven 
you  until  you  make  restitution.”  Anthony 
was  full  sure  that  it  was  a mortal  sin.  He 
knew  that  he  ought  to  go  to  confession  and 
tell  the  sin  to  the  priest.  But  he  couldn’t 
go  to  confession,  for  he  knew  that  the  priest 
would  say  to  him  that  he  must  give  the  doll 
back.  And  he  wouldn’t  give  the  doll  back. 
He  hardened  his  heart  and  he  said  that  he’d 
never  give  the  doll  back,  for  that  the  doll 
was  making  Eibhlin  better  every  day. 

One  evening  he  was  sitting  by  the  bed- 
foot  in  serious  talk  with  Eibhlin  when  his 
mother  ran  in  in  a hurry,  and  says  she  — 

“ Here’s  the  mistress  and  little  Nance 
coming  up  the  bohereen  ! ” 

Anthony  wished  the  earth  would  open 
and  swallow  him.  His  face  was  red  up  to 
his  two  ears.  He  was  in  a sweat.  He 
wasn’t  able  to  say  a word  or  to  think  a 
thought.  But  these  words  were  running 

187 


THE  THIEF 


through  his  head  : “ They’ll  take  the  doll 
from  Eibhlin.”  It  was  all  the  same  to  him 
what  they’d  say  or  what  they’d  do  to  him- 
self. The  only  answer  he’d  have  would  be, 
“ The  doll’s  making  Eibhlin  better.” 

The  mistress  and  little  Nance  came  into 
the  room.  Anthony  got  up.  He  couldn’t 
look  them  in  the  face.  He  began  at  his  old 
clatter,  counting  the  toes  of  his  feet.  Five 
on  each  foot  ; four  toes  and  a big  toe  ; or 
three  toes,  a big  toe,  and  a little  toe  ; that’s 
five  ; twice  five  are  ten  ; ten  in  all.  He 
couldn’t  add  to  their  number  or  take  from 
them.  His  mother  was  talking,  the  mistress 
was  talking,  but  Anthony  paid  no  heed  to 
them.  He  was  waiting  till  something  would 
be  said  about  the  doll.  There  was  nothing 
for  him  to  do  till  that  but  count  his  toes. 
One,  two,  three 

What  was  that  ? Eibhlin  was  referring 
to  the  doll.  Anthony  listened  now. 

“ Wasn’t  it  good  of  you  to  send  me  the 
doll?  ” she  was  saying  to  Nance.  “ From 
the  day  Anthony  brought  it  in  to  me  a 
change  began  coming  on  me.” 

“ It  did  that,”  says  her  mother.  “ We’ll 
be  forever  grateful  to  you  for  that  same  doll 

1 88 


THE  THIEF 


you  sent  to  her.  May  God  increase  your 
store,  and  may  He  requite  you  for  it  a 
thousand  times.” 

Neither  Nance  nor  the  mistress  spoke. 
Anthony  looked  at  Nance  shyly.  His  two 
eyes  were  stuck  in  the  doll,  for  the  doll  was 
lying  cosy  in  the  bed  beside  Eibhlin.  It 
had  its  mouth  half  open,  and  the  wonder  of 
the  world  on  it  at  the  sayings  of  Eibhlin 
and  her  mother. 

“ It’s  with  trouble  I believed  Anthony 
when  he  brought  it  into  me,”  says  Eibhlin, 
“ and  when  he  told  me  you  sent  it  to  me  as 
a present.” 

Nance  looked  over  at  Anthony.  Anthony 
lifted  his  head  slowly,  and  their  eyes  met. 
It  will  never  be  known  what  Nance  read  in 
Anthony’s  eyes.  What  Anthony  read  in 
Nance’s  eyes  was  mercy,  love  and  sweetness. 
Nance  spoke  to  Eibhlin. 

“ Do  you  like  it?  ” says  she. 

“ Over  anything,”  says  Eibhlin.  I’d 
rather  it  than  anything  I have  in  the 
world.” 

“ I have  the  little  house  it  lives  in,”  says 
Nance.  “ I must  send  it  to  you.  Anthony 
will  bring  it  to  you  to-morrow.” 

189 


THE  THIEF 


“ Ora  ! ” says  Eibhlin,  and  she  clapping 
her  two  little  thin  palms  together. 

“ You’ll  miss  it,  love,”  says  Eibhlin’s 
mother  to  Nance. 

“ No,”  said  Nance.  “ It  will  put  more 
improvement  on  Eibhlin.  I have  lots  of 
things.” 

“ Let  her  do  it,  Cait,”  said  the  mistress 
to  the  mother. 

“ Ye  are  too  good,”  says  the  poor  woman. 

Anthony  thought  that  it’s  dreaming  he 
was.  Or  he  thought  that  it’s  not  a person 
of  this  world  little  Nance  was  at  all,  but  an 
angel  come  down  out  of  heaven.  He 
wanted  to  go  on  his  knees  to  her. 

When  the  mistress  and  little  Nance  went 
off,  Anthony  ran  out  the  back  door  and 
tore  across  the  garden,  so  that  he’d  be  before 
them  at  the  bohereen-foot,and  they  going  out 
on  the  road. 

“ Nance,”  says  he,  “ I s-stole  it, — the 
d-doll.  ” 

“ Never  mind,  Anthony,”  says  Nance, 
“ you  did  good  to  Eibhlin.” 

Anthony  stood  like  a stake  in  the  road, 
and  he  couldn’t  speak  another  word. 

Isn’t  it  he  was  proud  bringing  the  doll’s 

190 


THE  THIEF 


house  home  to  Eibhlin  after  school  the 
next  day  ! And  isn’t  it  they  had  the  fun 
that  evening  settling  the  house  and  polishing 
the  furniture  and  putting  the  doll  to  sleep 
on  its  little  bed  ! 

The  Saturday  following  Anthony  went  to 
confession,  and  told  his  sin  to  the  priest. 
The  penance  the  priest  put  on  him  was  to 
clean  the  doll’s  house  once  in  the  week  for 
Eibhlin,  till  she  would  be  strong  enough 
to  clean  it  herself.  Eibhlin  was  strong 
enough  for  it  by  the  end  of  a month.  By 
the  end  of  another  month  she  was  at  school 
again. 

There  wasn’t  a Saturday  evening  from 
that  out  that  they  wouldn’t  hear  a little, 
light  tapping  at  the  master’s  door.  On  the 
mistress  going  out  Anthony  would  be 
standing  at  the  door. 

“ Here’s  a little  present  for  Nance,” 
he’d  say,  stretching  towards  her  half-a-dozen 
duck’s  eggs,  or  a bunch  of  heather,  or,  at  the 
least,  the  full  of  his  fist  of  duileasg , and  then 
he’d  brush  off  with  him  without  giving  the 
mistress  time  to  say  “ thank  you.” 


THE  KEENING  WOMAN 


THE  KEENING  WOMAN 

I 

“Coilin,”  says  my  father  to  me  one 
morning  after  the  breakfast,  and  I putting  my 
books  together  to  be  stirring  to  school — 
“ Coilin,”  says  he,  “ I have  a task  for  you 
to-day.  Sean  will  tell  the  master  it  was 
myself  kept  you  at  home  to-day,  or  it’s  the 
way  he’ll  be  thinking  you’re  miching,  like 
you  were  last  week.  Let  you  not  forget 
now,  Sean.” 

“ I will  not,  father,”  says  Sean,  and  a lip 
on  him.'  He  wasn’t  too  thankful  it  to  be 
said  that  it’s  not  for  him  my  father  had  the 
task.  This  son  was  well  satisfied,  for  my 
lessons  were  always  a trouble  to  me,  and  the 
master  promised  me  a beating  the  day 
before  unless  I’d  have  them  at  the  tip  of 
my  mouth  the  next  day. 

“ What  you’ll  do,  Coilin,”  says  my  father 
when  Sean  was  gone  off,  “ is  to  bring  the 
ass  and  the  little  car  with  you  to  Screeb, 
and  draw  home  a load  of  sedge.  Michileen 

x95 


THE  KEENING  WOMAN 


Maire  is  cutting  it  for  me.  We’ll  be 
starting,  with  God’s  help,  to  put  the  new 
roof  on  the  house  after  to-morrow,  if  the 
weather  stands.” 

“ Michileen  took  the  ass  and  car  with 
him  this  morning,”  says  I. 

“You’ll  have  to  leg  it,  then,  a mhic  O,” 
says  my  father.  “ As  soon  as  Michileen 
has  an  ass-load  cut,  fetch  it  home  with  you 
on  the  car,  and  let  Michileen  tear  till  he’s 
black.  We  might  draw  the  other  share 
to-morrow.” 

It  wasn’t  long  till  I was  knocking  steps 
out  of  the  road.  I gave  my  back  to  Kil- 
brickan  and  my  face  to  Turlagh.  I left 
Turlagh  behind  me,  and  I made  for  Gort- 
more.  I stood  a spell  looking  at  an  oared 
boat  that  was  on  Loch  Ellery,  and  another 
spell  playing  with  some  Inver  boys  that 
were  late  going  to  Gortmore  school.  I 
left  them  at  the  school  gate,  and  I reached 
Glencaha.  I stood,  for  the  third  time, 
watching  a big  eagle  that  was  sunning 
himself  on  Carrigacapple.  East  with  me,  then, 
till  I was  in  Derrybanniv,  and  the  hour  and 
a half  wasn’t  spent  when  I cleared  Glasha- 
duff  bridge. 


196 


THE  KEENING  WOMAN 


There  was  a house  that  time  a couple  of 
hundred  yards  east  from  the  bridge,  near 
the  road,  on  your  right-hand  side  and  you 
drawing  towards  Screeb.  It  was  often  before 
that  that  I saw  an  old  woman  standing  in 
the  door  of  that  house,  but  I had  no 
acquaintance  on  her,  nor  did  she  ever  put 
talk  or  topic  on  me.  A tall,  thin  woman 
she  was,  her  head  as  white  as  the  snow, 
and  two  dark  eyes,  as  they  would  be  two 
burning  sods,  flaming  in  her  head.  She 
was  a woman  that  would  scare  me  if  I met 
her  in  a lonely  place  in  the  night.  Times 
she  would  be  knitting  or  carding,  and  she 
crooning  low  to  herself ; but  the  thing  she 
would  be  mostly  doing  when  I travelled, 
would  be  standing  in  the  door,  and  looking 
from  her  up  and  down  the  road,  exactly  as 
she’d  be  waiting  for  someone  that  would  be 
away  from  her,  and  she  expecting  him  home. 

She  was  standing  there  that  morning  as 
usual,  her  hand  to  her  eyes,  and  she  staring 
up  the  road.  When  she  saw  me  going 
past,  she  nodded  her  head  to  me.  I went 
over  to  her. 

“ Do  you  see  a person  at  all  coming  up 
the  road  ? ” says  she. 

197 


THE  KEENING  WOMAN 


44  I don’t,”  says  I. 

“ I thought  I saw  someone.  It  can’t 
be  that  I’m  astray.  See,  isn’t  that  a young 
man  making  up  on  us?”  says  she. 

44  Devil  a one  do  I see,”  says  I.  44 There’s 
not  a person  at  all  between  the  spot  we’re 
on  and  the  turning  of  the  road.” 

44  I was  astray,  then,”  says  she.  44  My 
sight  isn’t  as  good  as  it  was.  I thought  I 
saw  him  coming.  I don’t  know  what’s 
keeping  him.” 

44  Who’s  away  from  you  ? ” says  myself. 

44  My  son  that’s  away  from  me,”  says 
she. 

44  Is  he  long  away  ? ” 

46  This  morning  he  went  to  Uachtar  Ard.” 

44  But,  sure,  he  couldn’t  be  here  for  a 
while,”  says  I.  44  You’d  think  he’d  barely 
be  in  Uachtar  Ard  by  now,  and  he  doing 
his  best,  unless  it  was  by  the  morning  train 
he  went  from  the  Burnt  House.” 

44  What’s  this  I’m  saying?”  says  she. 
44  It’s  not  to-day  he  went,  but  yesterday, — 
or  the  day  ere  yesterday,  maybe. 

I’m  losing  my  wits.” 

44  If  it’s  on  the  train  he’s  coming,”  says  I, 
44  he’ll  not  be  here  for  a couple  of  hours  yet.” 

198 


THE  KEENING  WOMAN 


“ On  the  train  ?”  says  she.  “ What  train  ?” 
“ The  train  that  does  be  at  the  Burnt 
H ouse  at  noon/’ 

“ He  didn’t  say  a word  about  a train,” 
says  she.  “ There  was  no  train  coming  as 
far  as  the  Burnt  House  yesterday.” 

“ Isn’t  there  a train  coming  to  the  Burnt 
House  these  years?”  says  I,  wondering 
greatly.  She  didn’t  give  me  any  answer, 
however.  She  was  staring  up  the  road 
again.  There  came  a sort  of  dread  on  me 
of  her,  and  I was  about  gathering  off. 

“ If  you  see  him  on  the  road,”  says  she, 
“ tell  him  to  make  huu*y.” 

“ I’ve  no  acquaintance  on  him,”  says  I. 

“ You’d  know  him  easy.  He’s  the  play- 
boy of  the  people.  A young,  active  lad, 
and  he  well  set-up.  He  has  a white  head 
on  him,  like  is  on  yourself,  and  grey  eyes 
. . . like  his  father  had.  Bawneens 

he’s  wearing.” 

“ If  I see  him,”  says  I,  “ I’ll  tell  him 
you’re  waiting  for  him.” 

“ Do,  son,”  says  she. 

With  that  I stirred  on  with  me  east,  and 
left  her  standing  in  the  door. 


199 


THE  KEENING  WOMAN 


She  was  there  still,  and  I coming  home  a 
couple  of  hours  after  that,  and  the  load  of 
sedge  on  the  car. 

“ He  didn’t  come  yet?”  says  I to 
her. 

“ No,  a mhuirnin . You  didn’t  see  him  ?” 
“ No.” 

“ No  ? What  can  have  happened  him?” 

There  were  signs  of  rain  on  the  day. 

“ Come  in  till  the  shower’s  over,”  says 
she.  “ It’s  seldom  I do  have  company.” 

I left  the  ass  and  the  little  car  on  the 
road,  and  I went  into  the  house. 

“ Sit  and  drink  a cup  of  milk,”  says 
she. 

I sat  on  the  bench  in  the  corner,  and  she 
gave  me  a drink  of  milk  and  a morsel  of 
bread.  I was  looking  all  round  the  house, 
and  I eating  and  drinking.  There  was  a 
chair  beside  the  fire,  and  a white  shirt  and  a 
suit  of  clothes  laid  on  it. 

“ I have  these  ready  against  he  will 
come,”  says  she.  “ I washed  the  bawneens 
yesterday  after  his  departing, — no,  the  day 
ere  yesterday — I don’t  know  right  which 
day  I washed  them ; but,  anyhow,  they’ll 
be  clean  and  dry  before  him  when  he  does 

200 


THE  KEENING  WOMAN 


come.  . . . What’s  your  own  name  f ” 

says  she,  suddenly,  after  a spell  of  silence. 

I told  her. 

“ Muise,  my  love  you  are!”  says  she. 
“ The  very  name  that  was — that  is — on  my 
own  son.  Whose  are  you?” 

I told  her. 

“ And  do  you  say  you’re  a son  of  Sean 
Feichin’s?  ” says  she.  “ Your  father  was  in 
the  public-house  in  Uachtar  Ard  that  night. 

• . .”  She  stopped  suddenly  with  that, 

and  there  came  some  change  on  her.  She 
put  her  hand  to  her  head.  You’d  think 
that  it’s  madness  was  struck  on  her.  She 
sat  before  the  fire  then,  and  she  stayed  for  a 
while  dreaming  into  the  heart  of  the  fire. 
It  was  short  till  she  began  moving  herself 
to  and  fro  over  the  fire,  and  crooning  or 
keening  in  a low  voice.  I didn’t  understand 
the  words  right,  or  it  would  be  better  for 
me  to  say  that  it’s  not  on  the  words  I was 
thinking  but  on  the  music.  It  seemed  to  me 
that  there  was  the  loneliness  of  the  hills  in 
the  dead  time  of  night,  or  the  loneliness  of 
the  grave  when  nothing  stirs  in  it  but 
worms,  in  that  music.  Here  are  the  words 
as  I heard  them  from  my  father  after  that : — 

201 


THE  KEENING  WOMAN 


Sorrow  on  death,  it  is  it  that  blackened  my  heart, 
That  carried  off  my  love  and  that  left  me  ruined, 
Without  friend,  without  companion  under  the 
roof  of  my  house 

But  this  sorrow  in  my  middle,  and  I lamenting. 

Going  the  mountain  one  evening, 

The  birds  spoke  to  me  sorrowfully, 

The  melodious  snipe  and  the  voiceful  curlew, 
Telling  me  that  my  treasure  was  dead. 

1 called  on  you,  and  your  voice  I did  not  hear, 

I called  again,  and  an  answer  I did  not  get. 

I kissed  your  mouth,  and  O God,  wasn’t  it  cold! 
Och,  it’s  cold  your  bed  is  in  the  lonely  graveyard. 

And  O sod-green  grave,  where  my  child  is, 

O narrow,  little  grave,  since  you  are  his  bed, 

My  blessing  on  you,  and  the  thousand  blessings 
On  the  green  sods  that  are  over  my  pet. 

Sorrow  on  death,  its  blessing  is  not  possible — 

It  lays  fresh  and  withered  together  ; 

And,  O pleasant  little  son,  it  is  it  is  my  affliction. 
Your  sweet  body  to  be  making  clay  ! 

When  she  had  that  finished,  she  kept  on 
moving  herself  to  and  fro,  and  lamenting 
in  a low  voice.  It  was  a lonesome  place 
to  be,  in  that  backward  house,  and  you  to 
have  no  company  but  yon  solitary  old 

202 


THE  KEENING  WOMAN 


woman,  mourning  to  herself  by  the  fire- 
side. There  came  a dread  and  a creeping 
on  me,  and  I rose  to  my  feet. 

“ It’s  time  for  me  to  be  going  home,” 
says  I.  “ The  evening’s  clearing.” 

“ Come  here,”  says  she  to  me. 

I went  hither  to  her.  She  laid  her  two 
hands  softly  on  my  head,  and  she  kissed  my 
forehead. 

“The  protection  of  God  to  you,  little 
son,”  says  she.  “ May  He  let  the  harm  of 
the  year  over  you,  and  may  He  increase  the 
good  fortune  and  happiness  of  the  year  to 
you  and  to  your  family.” 

With  that  she  freed  me  from  her.  I left 
the  house,  and  pushed  on  home  with  me. 


“ Where  were  you,  Coilin,  when  the 
shower  caught  you  ?”  says  my  mother  to  me 
that  night.  “ It  didn’t  do  you  any  hurt.” 
“ I waited  in  the  house  of  yon  old  woman 
on  the  east  side  of  Glashaduff  bridge,”  says 
I.  “ She  was  talking  to  me  about  her  son. 
He’s  in  Uachtar  Ard  these  two  days,  and 
she  doesn’t  know  why  he  hasn’t  come  home 
ere  this.” 


203 


THE  KEENING  WOMAN 


My  father  looked  over  at  my  mother. 

“The  Keening  Woman,”  says  he. 

“ Who  is  she?”  says  I. 

“ The  Keening  Woman,”  says  my  father. 
“ Muirne  of  the  Keens.” 

“Why  was  that  name  given  to  her?” 
says  I. 

“ For  the  keens  she  does  be  making,” 
answered  my  father.  “ She’s  the  most 
famous  keening-woman  in  Connemara  or 
in  the  Joyce  Country.  She’s  always  sent 
for  when  anyone  dies.  She  keened  my 
father,  and  there’s  a chance  but  she’ll  keen 
myself.  But,  may  God  comfort  her,  it’s 
her  own  dead  she  does  be  keening  always, 
it’s  all  the  same  what  corpse  is  in  the 
house.” 

“ And  what’s  her  son  doing  in  Uachtar 
Ard  ? ” says  I. 

“ Her  son  died  twenty  years  since, 
Coilin,”  says  my  mother. 

“ He  didn’t  die  at  all,”  says  my  father, 
and  a very  black  look  on  him.  “ He  was 
murdered .” 

“ Who  murdered  him?  ” 

It’s  seldom  I saw  my  father  angry,  but 
it’s  awful  his  anger  was  when  it  would 

204 


THE  KEENING  WOMAN 


rise  up  in  him.  He  took  a start  out  of  me 
when  he  spoke  again,  he  was  that  angry. 

“ Who  murdered  your  own  grandfather  ? 
Who  drew  the  red  blood  out  of  my  grand- 
mother’s shoulders  with  a lash  ? Who 
would  do  it  but  the  English  ? My  curse 
on  — ” 

My  mother  rose,  and  she  put  her  hand 
on  his  mouth. 

“ Don’t  give  your  curse  to  anyone,  Sean,” 
says  she.  My  mother  was  that  kind- 
hearted,  she  wouldn’t  like  to  throw  the 
bad  word  at  the  devil  himself.  I believe 
she’d  have  pity  in  her  heart  for  Cain  and 
for  Judas,  and  for  Diarmaid  of  the  Galls. 
“ It’s  time  for  us  to  be  saying  the  Rosary,” 
says  she.  “Your  father  will  tell  you  about 
Coilin  Muirne  some  other  night.” 

“ Father,”  says  I,  and  we  going  on  our 
knees,  “ we  should  say  a prayer  for  Coilin’s 
soul  this  night.” 

“ We’ll  do  that,  son,”  says  my  father 
kindly. 


205 


THE  KEENING  WOMAN 


II 

Sitting  up  one  night,  in  the  winter  that 
was  on  us,  my  father  told  us  the  story  of 
Muirne  from  start  to  finish.  It’s  well  I 
mind  him  in  the  firelight,  a broad-shouldered 
man,  a little  stooped,  his  share  of  hair  going 
grey,  lines  in  his  forehead,  a sad  look  in  his 
eyes.  He  was  mending  an  old  sail  that 
night,  and  I was  on  my  knees  beside  him  in 
the  name  of  helping  him.  My  mother  and 
my  sisters  were  spinning  frieze.  Seaneen 
was  stretched  on  his  face  on  the  floor,  and 
he  in  grips  of  a book.  ’Twas  small  the 
heed  he  gave  to  the  same  book,  for  it’s  the 
pastime  he  had,  to  be  tickling  the  soles  of 
my  feet  and  taking  an  odd  pinch  out  of  my 
calves  ; but  as  my  father  stirred  out  in  the 
story  Sean  gave  over  his  trickery,  and  it  is 
short  till  he  was  listening  as  interested  as 
anyone.  It  would  be  hard  not  to  listen  to 
my  father  when  he’d  tell  a story  like  that  by 
the  hearthside.  He  was  a sweet  storyteller. 
It’s  often  I’d  think  there  was  music  in  his 

206 


THE  KEENING  WOMAN 


voice ; a low,  deep  music  like  that  in  the 
bass  of  the  organ  in  Tuam  Cathedral. 

Twenty  years  are  gone,  Coilin  (says  my 
father),  since  the  night  myself  and  Coilin 
Muirne  (may  God  give  him  grace)  and  three 
or  four  others  of  the  neighbours  were  in 
Neachtan’s  public-house  in  Uachtar  Ard. 
There  was  a fair  in  the  town  the  same  day, 
and  we  were  drinking  a glass  before  taking 
the  road  home  on  ourselves.  There  were 
four  or  five  men  in  it  from  Carrowroe  and 
from  the  Joyce  Country,  and  six  or  seven 
of  the  people  of  the  town.  There  came  a 
stranger  in,  a thin,  black  man  that  nobody 
knew.  He  called  for  a glass. 

“ Did  ye  hear,  people,”  says  he  to  us,  and 
he  drinking  with  us,  “ that  the  lord  is  to 
come  home  to-night?  ” 

“What  business  has  the  devil  here?” 
says  someone. 

“ Bad  work  he’s  up  to,  as  usual,”  says  the 
black  man.  “ He  has  settled  to  put  seven 
families  out  of  their  holdings.” 

“ Who’s  to  be  put  out?  ” says  one  of  us. 
“ Old  Thomas  O’Drinan  from  the  Glen, 
— I’m  told  the  poor  fellow’s  dying,  but  it’s 
on  the  roadside  he’ll  die,  if  God  hasn’t  him 

207 


THE  KEENING  WOMAN 


already  ; a man  of  the  O’Conaire’s  that  lives 
in  a cabin  on  this  side  of  Loch  Shindilla  ; 
Manning  from  Snamh  Bo  ; two  in  Annagh- 
maan  ; a woman  at  the  head  of  the  Island  ; 
and  Anthony  O’Greelis  from  Lower  Camus.” 
“ Anthony’s  wife  is  heavy  in  child,”  says 
Cuimin  O’Niadh. 

“That  won’t  save  her,  the  creature,” 
says  the  black  man.  “ She’s  not  the  first 
woman  out  of  this  country  that  bore  her 
child  in  a ditch-side  of  the  road.” 

There  wasn’t  a word  out  of  anyone  of 
us. 

“What  sort  of  men  are  ye?”  says  the 
black  man, — “ ye  are  not  men,  at  all.  I 
was  born  and  raised  in  a countryside,  and, 
my  word  to  you,  the  men  of  that  place 
wouldn’t  let  the  whole  English  army  together 
throw  out  seven  families  on  the  road  without 
them  knowing  the  reason  why.  Are  ye 
afraid  of  the  man  that’s  coming  here  to- 
night ? ” 

“ It’s  easy  to  talk,”  said  Cuimin,  “ but 
what  way  can  we  stop  the  bodach  ? ” 

“ Murder  him  this  night,”  says  a voice 
behind  me.  Everybody  started.  I myself 
turned  round.  It  was  Coilin  Muirne  that 

208 


THE  KEENING  WOMAN 


spoke.  His  two  eyes  were  blazing  in  his 
head,  a flame  in  his  cheeks,  and  his  head 
thrown  high. 

“ A man  that  spoke  that,  whatever  his 
name  and  surname,”  says  the  stranger.  He 
went  hither  and  gripped  Coilin’s  hand. 
“ Drink  a glass  with  me,”  says  he. 

Coilin  drank  the  glass.  The  others 
wouldn’t  speak. 

“ It’s  time  for  us  to  be  shortening  the 
road,”  says  Cuimin,  after  a little  spell. 

We  got  a move  on  us.  We  took  the 
road  home.  The  night  was  dark.  There 
was  no  wish  for  talk  on  any  of  us,  at  all. 
When  we  came  to  the  head  of  the  street 
Cuimin  stood  in  the  middle  of  the  road. 

“ Where’s  Coilin  Muirne  ? ” says  he. 

We  didn’t  feel  him  from  us  till  Cuimin 
spoke.  He  wasn’t  in  the  company. 

Myself  went  back  to  the  public-house. 
Coilin  wasn’t  in  it.  I questioned  the  pot- 
boy. He  said  that  Coilin  and  the  black 
man  left  the  shop  together  five  minutes  after 
our  going.  I searched  the  town.  There 
wasn’t  tale  or  tidings  of  Coilin  anywhere. 
I left  the  town  and  I followed  the  other 
men.  I hoped  it  might  be  that  he’d  be  to 

209  p 


THE  KEENING  WOMAN 


find  before  me.  He  wasn’t,  nor  the  track 
of  him. 

It  was  very  far  in  the  night  when  we  reached 
Glashaduff  bridge.  There  was  a light  in 
Muirne’s  house.  Muirne  herself  was  stand- 
ing in  the  door. 

“ God  save  you,  men,”  says  she,  coming 
over  to  us.  “ Is  Coilin  with  you  ? ” 

“He  isn’t,  muise”  says  I.  “He  stayed 
behind  us  in  Uachtar  Ard.” 

“ Did  he  sell  ? ” says  she. 

“ He  did,  and  well,”  says  I.  “ There’s 
every  chance  that  he’ll  stay  in  the  town  till 
morning.  The  night’s  black  and  cold  in 
itself.  Wouldn’t  it  be  as  well  for  you  to  go 
in  and  lie  down  ? ” 

“ It’s  not  worth  my  while,”  says  she. 
“ I’ll  wait  up  till  he  comes.  May  God 
hasten  you.” 

We  departed.  There  was,  as  it  would  be, 
a load  on  my  heart.  I was  afraid  that  there 
was  something  after  happening  to  Coilin. 
I had  ill  notions  of  that  black  man  . 

I lay  down  on  my  bed  after  coming  home, 
but  I didn’t  sleep. 

The  next  morning  myself  and  your 
mother  were  eating  breakfast,  when  the 

210 


THE  KEENING  WOMAN 


latch  was  lifted  from  the  door,  and  in  comes 
Cuimin  O’Niadh.  He  could  hardly  draw 
his  breath. 

‘‘What’s  the  news  with  you,  man?” 
says  I. 

“Bad  news,”  says  he.  “The  lord  was 
murdered  last  night.  He  was  got  on  the 
road  a mile  to  the  east  of  Uachtar  Ard, 
and  a bullet  through  his  heart.  The 
soldiers  were  in  Muirne’s  house  this  morn- 
ing on  the  track  of  Coilin,  but  he  wasn’t 
there.  He  hasn’t  come  home  yet.  It’s 
said  it  was  he  murdered  the  lord.  You 
mind  the  words  he  said  last  night?” 

I leaped  up,  and  out  the  door  with  me. 
Down  the  road,  and  east  to  Muirne’s  house. 
There  was  no  one  before  me  but  herself. 
The  furniture  of  the  house  was  this  way 
and  that  way,  where  the  soldiers  were 
searching.  Muirne  got  up  when  she  saw 
me  in  the  door. 

“ Sean  O’Conaire,”  says  she,  “ for  God’s 
pitiful  sake,  tell  me  where’s  my  son?  You 
were  along  with  him.  Why  isn’t  he 
coming  home  to  me?” 

“ Let  you  have  patience,  Muirne,”  says 
I.  “ I’m  going  to  Uachtar  Ard  after  him.” 

2 1 1 


THE  KEENING  WOMAN 


I struck  the  road.  Going  in  the  street 
of  Uachtar  Ard,  I saw  a great  ruck  of 
people.  The  bridge  and  the  street  before 
the  chapel  were  black  with  people.  People 
were  making  on  the  spot  from  every  art. 
But,  a thing  that  put  terror  on  my  heart, 
there  wasn’t  a sound  out  of  that  terrible 
gathering, — only  the  eyes  of  every  man 
stuck  in  a little  knot  that  was  in  the  right- 
middle  of  the  crowd.  Soldiers  that  were 
in  that  little  knot,  black  coats  and  red 
coats  on  them,  and  guns  and  swords  in 
their  hands  ; and  among  the  black  coats 
and  red  coats  I saw  a country  boy,  and 
bawneens  on  him.  Coilin  Muirne  that 
was  in  it,  and  he  in  holds  of  the  soldiers. 
The  poor  boy’s  face  was  as  white  as  my 
shirt,  but  he  had  the  beautiful  head  of  him 
lifted  proudly,  and  it  wasn’t  the  head  of  a 
coward,  that  head. 

He  was  brought  to  the  barracks,  and  that 
crowd  following  him.  He  was  taken  to 
Galway  that  night.  He  was  put  on  his 
trial  the  next  month.  It  was  sworn  that 
he  was  in  the  public-house  that  night.  It 
was  sworn  that  the  black  man  was  discours- 
ing on  the  landlords.  It  was  sworn  that 

212 


THE  KEENING  WOMAN 

he  said  the  lord  would  be  coming  that 
night  to  throw  the  people  out  of  their 
holdings  the  next  day.  It  was  sworn  that 
Coilin  Muirne  was  listening  attentively  to 
him.  It  was  sworn  that  Coilin  said  those 
words,  “ Murder  him  this  night,”  when 
Cuimin  O’Niadh  said,  “ What  way  can  we 
stop  the  bodach?”  It  was  sworn  that  the 
black  man  praised  him  for  saying  those 
words,  that  he  shook  hands  with  him, 
that  they  drank  a glass  together.  It  was 
sworn  that  Coilin  remained  in  the  shop 
after  the  going  of  the  Rossnageeragh  people, 
and  that  himself  and  the  black  man  left 
the  shop  together  five  minutes  after  that. 
There  came  a peeler  then,  and  he  swore 
he  saw  Coilin  and  the  black  man  leaving 
the  town,  and  that  it  wasn’t  the  Rossna- 
geeragh road  they  took  on  themselves,  but 
the  Galway  road.  At  eight  o’clock  they 
left  the  town.  At  half  after  eight  a shot 
was  fired  at  the  lord  on  the  Galway  road. 
Another  peeler  swore  he  heard  the  report 
of  the  shot.  He  swore  he  ran  to  the  place, 
and,  closing  up  to  the  place,  he  saw  two 
men  running  away.  A thin  man  one  of 
them  was,  and  he  dressed  like  a gentleman 

213 


THE  KEENING  WOMAN 

would  be.  A country  bey  the  other  man 
was. 

“ What  kind  of  clothes  was  the  country 
boy  wearing?  ” says  the  lawyer. 

“ A suit  of  bawneens,”  says  the  peeler. 

“ Is  that  the  man  you  saw?”  says  the 
lawyer,  stretching  his  finger  towards  Coilin. 

“ I would  say  it  was.” 

“ Do  you  swear  it  ? ” 

J 

The  peeler  didn’t  speak  for  a spell. 

“Do  you  swear  it?”  says  the  lawyer 
again. 

“ I do,”  says  the  peeler.  The  peeler’s 
face  at  that  moment  was  whiter  than  the 
face  of  Coilin  himself. 

A share  of  us  swore  then  that  Coilin 
never  fired  a shot  out  of  a gun  ; that  he  was 
a decent,  kindly  boy  that  wouldn’t  hurt  a 
fly,  if  he  had  the  power  for  it.  The  parish 
priest  swore  that  he  knew  Coilin  from  the 
day  he  baptized  him  ; that  it  was  his  opinion 
that  he  never  committed  a sin,  and  that  he 
wouldn’t  believe  from  anyone  at  all  that  he 
would  slay  a man.  It  was  no  use  for  us. 
What  good  was  our  testimony  against  the 
testimony  of  the  police  ? Judgment  of  death 
was  given  on  Coilin. 

214 


THE  KEENING  WOMAN 


His  mother  was  present  all  that  time.  She 
didn’t  speak  a word  from  start  to  finish,  but 
her  two  eyes  stuck  in  the  two  eyes  of  her 
son,  and  her  two  hands  knitted  under  her 
shawl. 

tc  He  won’t  be  hanged,”  says  Muirne  that 
night.  “ God  promised  me  that  he  won’t 
be  hanged.” 

A couple  of  days  after  that  we  heard  that 
Coilin  wouldn’t  be  hanged,  that  it’s  how  his 
soul  would  be  spared  him  on  account  of  him 
being  so  young  as  he  was,  but  that  he’d  be 
kept  in  gaol  for  the  term  of  his  life. 

“ He  won’t  be  kept,”  says  Muirne.  “ O 
Jesus,”  she  would  say,  don’t  let  them  keep 
my  son  from  me.” 

It’s  marvellous  the  patience  that  woman 
had,  and  the  trust  she  had  in  the  Son  of 
God.  It’s  marvellous  the  faith  and  the  hope  * 
and  the  patience  of  women. 

She  went  to  the  parish  priest.  She  said 
to  him  that  if  he’d  write  to  the  people  of 
Dublin,  asking  them  to  let  Coilin  out  to  her, 
it’s  certain  he  would  be  let  out. 

“ They  won’t  refuse  you,  Father,”  says 
she. 

The  priest  said  that  there  would  be  no 

21 5 


THE  KEENING  WOMAN 


use  at  all  in  writing,  that  no  heed  would  be 
paid  to  his  letter,  but  that  he  himself  would 
go  to  Dublin  and  that  he  would  speak  with 
the  great  people,  and  that,  maybe,  some  good 
might  come  out  of  it.  He  went.  Muirne 
was  full-sure  her  son  would  be  home  to  her 
by  the  end  of  a week  or  two.  She  readied 
the  house  before  him.  She  put  lime  on  it 
herself,  inside  and  outside.  She  set  two 
neighbours  to  put  a new  thatch  on  it.  She 
spun  the  makings  of  a new  suit  of  clothes 
for  him ; she  dyed  the  wool  with  her  own 
hands ; she  brought  it  to  the  weaver,  and 
she  made  the  suit  when  the  frieze  came 
home. 

We  thought  it  long  while  the  priest  was 
away.  He  wrote  a couple  of  times  to  the 
master,  but  there  was  nothing  new  in  the 
letters.  He  was  doing  his  best,  he  said,  but 
he  wasn’t  succeeding  too  well.  He  was 
going  from  person  to  person,  but  it’s  not 
much  satisfaction  anybody  was  giving  him. 
It  was  plain  from  the  priest’s  letters  that  he 
hadn’t  much  hope  he’d  be  able  to  do  any- 
thing. None  of  us  had  much  hope,  either. 
But  Muirne  didn’t  lose  the  wonderful  trust 
she  had  in  God. 


216 


THE  KEENING  WOMAN 


“ The  priest  will  bring  my  son  home  with 
him,”  she  used  say. 

There  was  nothing  making  her  anxious 
but  fear  that  she  wouldn’t  have  the  new  suit 
ready  before  Coilin’s  coming.  But  it  was 
finished  at  last ; she  had  everything  ready, 
repair  on  the  house,  the  new  suit  laid  on  a 
chair  before  the  fire, — and  still  no  word  of 
the  priest. 

“ Isn’t  it  Coilin  will  be  glad  when  he  sees 
the  comfort  I have  in  the  house,”  she  would 
say.  “Isn’t  it  he  will  look  spruce  going  the  road 
to  Mass  of  a Sunday,  and  that  suit  on  him!” 

It’s  well  I mind  the  evening  the  priest 
came  home.  Muirne  was  waiting  for  him 
since  morning,  the  house  cleaned  up,  and 
the  table  laid. 

“ Welcome  home,”  she  said,  when  the 
priest  came  in.  She  was  watching  the  door, 
as  she  would  be  expecting  someone  else  to 
come  in.  But  the  priest  closed  the  door 
after  him. 

“ I thought  that  it’s  with  yourself  he’d 
come,  Father,”  says  Muirne.  “ But,  sure, 
it’s  the  way  he  wouldn’t  like  to  come  on  the 
priest’s  car.  He  was  shy  like  that  always, 
the  creature.” 


217 


THE  KEENING  WOMAN 


“ Oh,  poor  Muirne,”  says  the  priest, 
holding  her  by  the  two  hands,  “ I can’t 
conceal  the  truth  from  you.  He’s  not 
coming,  at  all.  I didn’t  succeed  in  doing 
anything.  They  wouldn’t  listen  to  me.” 

Muirne  didn’t  say  a word.  She  went 
over  and  she  sat  down  before  the  fire.  The 
priest  followed  her  and  laid  his  hand  on  her 
shoulder. 

“ Muirne,”  says  he,  like  that. 

“ Let  me  be,  Father,  for  a little  while,” 
says  she.  “ May  God  and  His  Mother 
reward  you  for  what  you’ve  done  for  me. 
But  leave  me  to  myself  for  a while.  I 
thought  you’d  bring  him  home  to  me,  and 
it’s  a great  blow  on  me  that  he  hasn’t 
come.” 

The  priest  left  her  to  herself.  He  thought 
he’d  be  no  help  to  her  till  the  pain  of  that 
blow  would  be  blunted. 

The  next  day  Muirne  wasn’t  to  be  found. 
Tale  or  tidings  no  one  had  of  her.  Word 
nor  wisdom  we  never  heard  of  her  till  the 
end  of  a quarter.  A share  of  us  thought 
that  it’s  maybe  out  of  her  mind  the  creature 
went,  and  a lonely  death  to  come  on  her  in 
the  hollow  of  some  mountain,  or  drowning 

218 


THE  KEENING  WOMAN 


in  a boghole.  The  neighbours  searched 
the  hills  round  about,  but  her  track  wasn’t 
to  be  seen. 

One  evening  myself  was  digging  potatoes 
in  the  garden,  when  I saw  a solitary  woman 
making  on  me  up  the  road.  A tall,  thin 
woman.  Her  head  well-set.  A great 
walk  under  her.  “ If  Muirne  ni  Fhiann- 
achta  is  living,”  says  I to  myself,  “ it’s  she 
that’s  in  it.”  ’Twas  she,  and  none  else. 
Down  with  me  to  the  road. 

“ Welcome  home,  Muirne,”  says  I to 
her.  “ Have  you  any  news?” 

“ I have,  then,”  says  she,  “ and  good 
news.  I went  to  Galwav.  I saw  the 

j 

Governor  of  the  gaol.  He  said  to  me  that 
he  wouldn’t  be  able  to  do  a taste,  that  it’s 
the  Dublin  people  would  be  able  to  let  him 
out  of  gaol,  if  his  letting-out  was  to  be  got. 
I went  off*  to  Dublin.  O,  Lord,  isn’t  it 
many  a hard,  stony  road  I walked,  isn’t  it 
many  a fine  town  I saw  before  I came  to 
Dublin?  ‘Isn’t  it  a great  country,  Ireland 
is  ? ’ I used  say  to  myself  every  evening 
when  I’d  be  told  I’d  have  so  many  miles  to 
walk  before  I’d  see  Dublin.  But,  great 
thanks  to  God  and  to  the  Glorious  Virgin,  I 

219 


V 

\ 


THE  KEENING  WOMAN 


walked  in  on  the  street  of  Dublin  at  last, 
one  cold,  wet  evening.  I found  a lodging. 
The  morning  of  the  next  day  I enquired 
for  the  Castle.  I was  put  on  the  way.  I 
went  there.  They  wouldn’t  let  me  in  at 
first,  but  I was  at  them  till  I got  leave  of 
talk  with  some  man.  He  put  me  on  to 
another  man,  a man  that  was  higher  than 
himself.  He  sent  me  to  another  man.  I 
said  to  them  all  I wanted  was  to  see  the 
Lord  Lieutenant  of  the  Queen.  I saw  him 
at  last.  I told  him  my  story.  He  said  to 
me  that  he  couldn’t  do  anything.  I gave 
my  curse  to  the  Castle  of  Dublin,  and  out 
the  door  with  me.  I had  a pound  in  my 
pocket.  I went  aboard  a ship,  and  the 
morning  after  I was  in  Liverpool  of  the 
English.  I walked  the  long  roads  of  Eng- 
land from  Liverpool  to  London.  When  I 
came  to  London  I asked  knowledge  of  the 
Queen’s  Castle.  I was  told.  I went  there. 
They  wouldn’t  let  me  in.  I went  there 
every  day,  hoping  that  I’d  see  the  Queen 
coming  out.  After  a week  I saw  her 
coming  out.  There  were  soldiers  and  great 
people  about  her.  I went  over  to  the 
Queen  before  she  went  in  to  her  coach, 

220 


THE  KEENING  WOMAN 

There  was  a paper,  a man  in  Dublin  wrote 
for  me,  in  my  hand.  An  officer  seized  me. 
The  Queen  spoke  to  him,  and  he  freed  me 
from  him.  I spoke  to  the  Queen.  She 
didn’t  understand  me.  I stretched  the  paper 
to  her.  She  gave  the  paper  to  the  officer, 
and  he  read  it.  He  wrote  certain  words 
on  the  paper,  and  he  gave  it  back  to  me. 
The  Queen  spoke  to  another  woman  that 
was  along  with  her.  The  woman  drew  out 
a crown  piece  and  gave  it  to  me.  I gave 
her  back  the  crown  piece,  and  I said  that 
it’s  not  silver  I wanted,  but  my  son.  They 
laughed.  It’s  my  opinion  they  didn’t 
understand  me.  I showed  them  the  paper 
again.  The  officer  laid  his  finger  on  the 
words  he  was  after  writing.  I curtseyed 
to  the  Queen  and  went  off  with  me.  A 
man  read  for  me  the  words  the  officer  wrote. 
It’s  what  was  in  it,  that  they  would  write 
to  me  about  Coilin  without  delay.  I struck 
the  road  home  then,  hoping  that,  maybe, 
there  would  be  a letter  before  me.  “Do 
you  think,  Sean,”  says  Muirne,  finishing 
her  story,  “has  the  priest  any  letter? 
There  wasn’t  a letter  at  all  in  the  house 
before  me  coming  out  the  road  ; but  I’m 

221 


THE  KEENING  WOMAN 


thinking  it’s  to  the  priest  they’d  send  the 
letter,  for  it’s  a chance  the  great  people 
might  know  him.” 

“I  don’t  know  did  any  letter  come,”  says 
I.  “ I would  say  there  didn’t,  for  if 
there  did  the  priest  would  be  telling  us.” 

“ It  will  be  here  some  day  yet,”  says 
Muirne.  “ I’ll  go  in  to  the  priest,  anyhow, 
and  I’ll  tell  him  my  story.” 

In  the  road  with  her,  and  up  the  hill  to 
the  priest’s  house.  I saw  her  going  home 
again  that  night,  and  the  darkness  falling. 
It’s  wonderful  how  she  was  giving  it  to 
her  footsoles,  considering  what  she  suffered 
of  distress  and  hardship  for  a quarter. 

A week  went  by.  There  didn’t  come 
any  letter.  Another  week  passed.  No 
letter  came.  The  third  week,  and  still  no 
letter.  It  would  take  tears  out  of  the  grey 
stones  to  be  looking  at  Muirne,  and  the 
anxiety  that  was  on  her.  It  would  break 
your  heart  to  see  her  going  in  the  road  to 
the  priest  every  morning.  We  were  afraid 
to  speak  to  her  about  Coilin.  We  had  evil 
notions.  The  priest  had  evil  notions.  He 
said  to  us  one  day  that  he  heard  from 
another  priest  in  Galway  that  it’s  not  more 

222 


THE  KEENING  WOMAN 


than  well  Coilin  was,  that  it’s  greatly  the 
prison  was  preying  on  his  health,  that  he 
was  going  back  daily.  That  story  wasn’t 
told  to  Muirne. 

One  day  myself  had  business  with  the 
priest,  and  I went  in  to  him.  We  were 
conversing  in  the  parlour  when  we  heard  a 
person’s  footstep  on  the  street  outside. 
Never  a knock  on  the  house-door,  or  on 
the  parlour-door,  but  in  into  the  room  with 
Muirne  ni  Fhiannachta,  and  a letter  in  her 
hand.  It’s  with  trouble  she  could  talk. 

“ A letter  from  the  Queen,  a letter  from 
the  Queen  ! ” says  she. 

The  priest  took  the  letter.  He  opened 
it.  I noticed  that  his  hand  was  shaking, 
and  he  opening  it.  There  came  the  colour 
of  death  in  his  face  after  reading  it.  Muirne 
was  standing  out  opposite  him,  her  two 
eyes  blazing  in  her  head,  her  mouth  half  open. 

“ What  does  she  say,  Father?”  says  she. 
“ Is  she  sending  him  home  to  me?” 

“ It’s  not  from  the  Queen  this  letter  came, 
Muirne,”  says  the  priest,  speaking  slowly, 
like  as  there  would  be  some  impediment  on 
him,  “ but  from  the  Governor  of  the  gaol 
in  Dublin.” 

223 


THE  KEENING  WOMAN 


“ And  what  does  he  say  ? Is  he  sending 
him  home  to  me  ? ” 

The  priest  didn’t  speak  for  a minute.  It 
seemed  to  me  that  he  was  trying  to  mind 
certain  words,  and  the  words,  as  you  would 
say,  going  from  him. 

“ Muirne,”  says  he  at  last,  “ he  says  that 
poor  Coilin  died  yesterday.” 

At  the  hearing  of  those  words,  Muirne 
burst  a-laughing.  The  like  of  such  laughter 
I never  heard.  That  laughter  was  ringing 
in  my  ears  for  a month  after  that.  She 
made  a couple  of  terrible  screeches  of 
laughter,  and  then  she  fell  in  a faint  on 
the  floor. 

She  was  fetched  home,  and  she  was  on 
her  bed  for  a half  year.  She  was  out  of 
her  mind  all  that  time.  She  came  to  her- 
self at  long  last,  and  no  person  at  all  would 
think  there  was  a thing  the  matter  with 
her, — only  the  delusion  that  her  son  isn’t 
returned  home  yet  from  the  fair  of  Uachtar 
Ard.  She  does  be  expecting  him  always, 
standing  or  sitting  in  the  door  half  the  day, 
and  everything  ready  for  his  home-coming. 
She  doesn’t  understand  that  there’s  any 
change  on  the  world  since  that  night.  “ That’s 

224 


THE  KEENING  WOMAN 


the  reason,  Coilin,”  says  my  father  to  me, 
that  she  didn’t  know  the  railway  was 
coming  as  far  as  Burnt  House.  Times 
she  remembers  herself,  and  she  starts  keening 
like  you  saw  her.  ’Twas  herself  that  made 
yon  keen  you  heard  from  her.  May  God 
comfort  her,  says  my  father,”  putting  an 
end  to  his  story. 

“And  daddy,”  says  I,  “did  any  letter 
come  from  the  Queen  after  that  ? ” 

“There  didn’t,  nor  the  colour  of  one.” 

“ Do  you  think,  daddy,  was  it  Coilin  that 
killed  the  lord  ? ” 

“ I know  it  wasn’t,”  says  my  father.  “ If 
it  was  he’d  acknowledge  it.  I’m  as  certain 
as  I’m  living  this  night  that  it’s  the  black 
man  killed  the  lord.  I don’t  say  that  poor 
Coilin  wasn’t  present.” 

“ Was  the  black  man  ever  caught  ? ” says 
my  sister. 

“ He  wasn’t,  muise ,”  says  my  father. 
“ Little  danger  on  him.” 

“ Where  did  he  belong,  the  black  man, 
do  you  think,  daddy  ?”  says  I. 

“ I believe,  before  God,”  says  my  father, 
“ that  it’s  a peeler  from  Dublin  Castle  was 
in  it.  Cuimin  O’Niadh  saw  a man  very  like 

225  Q 


THE  KEENING  WOMAN 


him  giving  evidence  against  another  boy  in 
Tuam  a year  after  that.” 

“ Daddy,”  says  Seaneen  suddenly,  “when 
I’m  a man  I’ll  kill  that  black  man.” 

“ God  save  us,”  says  my  mother. 

My  father  laid  his  hand  on  Seaneen’s 
head. 

“ Maybe,  little  son,”  says  he,  “ we’ll  all 
be  taking  tally-ho  out  of  the  black  soldiers 
before  the  clay  will  come  on  us.” 

“ It’s  time  for  the  Rosary,”  says  my 
mother. 


226 


IOSAGAN 


IOSAGAN 


Old  Matthias  was  sitting  beside  his  door. 
Anyone  going  the  road  would  think  that 
it  was  an  image  of  stone  or  of  marble  was 
in  it — that,  or  a dead  person — for  he  couldn’t 
believe  that  a living  man  could  stay  so 
calm,  so  quiet  as  that.  He  had  his  head 
high  and  an  ear  on  him  listening.  It’s 
many  a musical  sound  there  was  to  listen 
to,  for  the  person  who’d  have  heed  on 
them.  Old  Matthias  heard  the  roar  of  the 
waves  on  the  rocks,  and  the  murmur  of  the 
stream  flowing  down  and  over  the  stones. 
He  heard  the  screech  of  the  heron-crane 
from  the  high,  rocky  shore,  and  the  lowing 
of  the  cows  from  the  pasture,  and  the  bright 
laughter  of  the  children  from  the  green. 
But  it  wasn’t  to  any  of  these  he  was  listen- 
ing that  attentively — though  all  of  them 
were  sweet  to  him — but  to  the  clear  sound 
of  the  bell  for  Mass  that  was  coming  to  him 
on  the  wind  in  the  morning  stillness. 

All  the  people  were  gathered  into  Mass. 
Old  Matthias  saw  them  going  past,  in  ones 

229 


IOSAGAN 


and  twos,  or  in  little  groups.  The  boys 
were  running  and  leaping.  The  girls  were 
chattering  merrily.  The  women  were 
conversing  in  low  tones.  The  men  were 
silent.  Like  this,  they’d  travel  the  road 
every  Sunday.  Like  this,  Old  Matthias 
would  sit  on  his  chair  watching  them  till 
they’d  go  out  of  sight.  They  went  past 
him  this  morning  as  usual.  The  old  man 
remained  looking  at  them  till  there  was  an 
end  to  the  noise  and  the  commotion,  till 
the  last  group  cleared  the  top  of  the  church 
hill,  till  there  was  nothing  to  be  seen  but 
a long,  straight  road  stretching  out,  and  it 
white,  till  there  were  none  to  be  found  in 
the  village  but  an  odd  old  person  in  his  bed, 
or  children  tricking  on  the  green,  and  him- 
self sitting  beside  his  door. 

Old  Matthias  would  not  go  to  the  chapel. 
He  hadn’t  heard  “ the  sweet  Mass  ” for 
over  three  score  years.  He  was  a strong, 
active  youth  the  last  time  he  blessed  him- 
self before  the  people,  and  now  he  was  a 
withered,  done  old  man,  his  share  of  hair 
grey-white,  furrows  in  his  brow,  his 
shoulders  bent.  He  hadn’t  bent  his  knee 
before  God  for  the  length  of  those  three 

230 


IOSAGAN 


score  years  ; he  hadn’t  put  a prayer  to  his 
Creator  ; he  hadn’t  given  thanks  to  his 
Saviour.  A man  apart,  Old  Matthias 
was. 

Nobody  knew  why  he  wouldn’t  go  to 
Mass.  People  said  that  he  didn’t  believe 
there  was  a God  in  it.  Other  people  said 
that  he  committed  some  terrible  sin  at  the 
start  of  his  life,  and  when  the  priest  wouldn’t 
give  him  absolution  in  confession,  that  a 
rage  of  anger  came  on  him,  and  he  swore 
an  oath  that  he  wouldn’t  touch  priest  or 
chapel  while  he  was  living  again.  Other 
people  said — but  this  was  said  only  in  a 
whisper  by  the  fireside  when  the  old  people 
would  be  yarning  by  themselves  after  the 
children  had  gone  asleep — these  said  that 
he  sold  his  soul  to  a certain  Great  Man 
that  he  met  once  on  the  top  of  Cnoc-a’- 
daimh,  and  that  this  person  wouldn’t  allow 
him  to  frequent  the  Mass.  I don’t  know 
is  it  true  or  lying  these  stories  are,  but  I do 
know  that  old  Matthias  wasn’t  seen  at  God’s 
Mass  in  the  memory  of  the  oldest  person 
in  the  village.  Cuimin  O’Niadh — an  old 
man  that  got  death  a couple  of  years  before 
this  in  his  ninetieth  year — said  that  he 

231 


IOSAGAN 

himself  saw  him  there  when  he  was  a lump 
of  a lad. 

It  wasn’t  thought  that  Old  Matthias  was 
a bad  character.  He  was  a man  as  honest, 
as  simple,  as  natural  as  you  would  meet  in 
a day’s  walking.  There  wasn’t  ever  heard 
out  of  his  mouth  but  the  good  word.  He 
had  no  delight  in  drink  or  in  company,  no 
wish  for  gold  or  for  property.  He  was 
poor,  but  it’s  often  he  shared  with  people 
that  were  poorer  than  he.  He  had  pity  for 
the  infirm.  He  had  mercy  for  the  wretched. 
Other  men  had  honour  and  esteem  for  him. 
The  women,  the  children,  and  the  animals 
loved  him  ; and  he  had  love  for  them  and 
for  everything  that  was  generous  and  of 
clean  heart. 

Old  Matthias  liked  women’s  talk  better 
than  men’s  talk.  But  he  liked  the  talk  of 
boys  and  girls  still  better  than  the  talk  of 
men  or  women.  He  used  say  that  the 
women  were  more  discerning  than  the  men, 
and  that  the  children  were  more  discerning 
than  either  of  them.  It’s  along  with  the 
young  folk  he  would  spend  the  best  part  of 
his  idle  time.  He  would  sit  with  them  in 
a corner  of  the  house,  telling  them  stories, 

232 


IOSAGAN 


or  getting  stories  out  of  them.  They  were 
wonderful,  his  share  of  stories.  He  had 
the  “ Adventures  of  the  Grey  Horse  ” in 
grandest  way  in  the  world.  He  was  the 
one  old  body  in  the  village  who  had 
the  story  of  the  “ Hen-Harrier  and  the 
Wren,”  properly.  Isn’t  it  he  would  put 
fright  on  the  children,  and  he  reciting  “ Fu 
Fa  Feasog ” (The  Two-Headed  Giant),  and 
isn’t  it  he  would  take  the  laughs  out  of 
them  discoursing  on  the  doings  of  the 
piper  in  the  Snail’s  Castle  ! And  the  songs 
he  had  ! He  could  coax  an  ailing  child 
asleep  with  his  : 

“ Shoheen,  sho,  and  sleep,  my  pet  ; 

The  fairies  are  out  walking  the  glen  !” 

or  he  could  put  the  full  of  a house  of 
children  in  fits  of  laughter  with  his : 

“ Hi  diddle  dum,  the  cat  and  his  mother, 
That  went  to  Galway  riding  a drake!” 

And  isn’t  it  he  had  the  funny  old  ranns  ; and 
the  hard,  difficult  questions ; and  the  fine 
riddles ! As  for  games,  where  was  the 
person,  man,  woman,  or  child  could  keep 
“ Lurabog , Ldrabog ,”  or  “ An  Bhuidhean 

233 


IOSAGAN 


Bhalbh  ” (The  Dumb  Band)  going  with  him  ! 

In  the  fine  time  it’s  on  the  side  of  the 
hill,  or  walking  the  bog,  you’d  see  Old 
Matthias  and  his  little  playmates,  he  explain- 
ing to  them  the  way  of  life  of  the  ants  and 
of  the  woodlice,  or  inventing  stories  about 
the  hedgehog  and  the  red  squirrel.  Another 
time  to  them  boating,  the  old  man  with  an 
oar,  some  little  wee  boy  with  another  one, 
and  maybe  a young  girl  steering.  It’s  often 
the  people  who’d  be  working  near  the  strand 
would  hear  the  shouts  of  joy  of  the  children 
coming  to  them  from  the  harbour-mouth, 
or,  it  might  be,  Old  Matthias’s  voice,  and  he 
saying  : 

“ Oro  ! my  curragheen  O ! 

And  oro  ! my  little  boat ! ” 

or  something  like  it. 

There  used  come  fear  on  a share  of  the 
mothers  at  times,  and  they’d  say  to  each 
other  that  they  oughtn’t  let  their  children 
spend  that  much  time  with  Old  Matthias, — 
“ a man  that  frequents  neither  clergy  nor 
M ass.”  Once  a woman  of  them  laid  bare 
these  thoughts  to  Father  Sean.  It’s  what 
the  priest  said  : 


234 


IOSAGAN 


“ Don’t  meddle  with  the  poor  children,’" 
says  he.  “ They  couldn’t  be  in  better 
company.” 

“ But  they  tell  me  he  doesn’t  believe  in 
God,  Father.” 

“ There’s  many  a saint  in  heaven  to-day  • 
that  didn’t  believe  in  God  some  time  of  his 
life.  And,  whisper  here.  If  Old  Matthias 
hasn’t  love  for  God — a thing  that  neither 
you  nor  I know — it’s  wonderful  the  love  he 
has  for  the  cleanest  and  most  beautiful  thing 
that  God  created, — the  shining  soul  of 
the  child.  Our  Saviour  Himself  and  the 
most  glorious  saints  in  heaven  had  the  same 
love  for  them.  How  do  we  know  that  it 
isn’t  the  children  that  will  draw  Old  Matthias 
to  the  knee  of  our  Saviour  yet?  ” 

And  the  story  was  left  like  that. 

On  this  Sunday  morning  the  old  man 
remained  listening  till  the  bell  for  Mass 
stopped  ringing.  When  there  was  an  end 
to  it  he  gave  a sigh,  as  the  person  would 
that  would  be  weary  and  sorrowful,  and  he 
turned  to  the  group  of  boys  that  were  sport- 
ing themselves  on  the  plot  of  grass — the 
“ green  ” Old  Matthias  would  call  it — at 
the  cross-roads.  Old  Matthias  knew  every 

235 


IOSAGAN 


curly-headed,  bare-footed  child  of  them. 
He  liked  no  pastime  at  all  better  than 
to  be  sitting  there  watching  them  and 
listening  to  them.  He  was  counting  them, 
seeing  which  of  his  friends  were  in  it  and 
which  of  them  were  gone  to  Mass  with  the 
grown  people,  when  he  noticed  among  them 
a child  he  never  saw  before.  A little,  brown 
boy,  with  a white  coat  on  him,  like  was  on 
every  other  boy,  and  he  without  shoes  or 
cap,  as  is  the  custom  with  the  children  of 
the  West.  The  face  of  this  boy  was  as 
bright  as  the  sun,  and  it  seemed  to  Old 
Matthias  that  there  were,  as  it  would  be, 
rays  of  light  coming  from  his  head.  The 
sun  shining  on  his  share  of  hair,  maybe. 

There  was  wonder  on  the  old  man  at 
seeing  this  child,  for  he  hadn’t  heard  that 
there  were  any  strangers  after  coming  to  the 
village.  He  was  on  the  point  of  going 
over  and  questioning  one  of  the  little  lads 
about  him,  when  he  heard  the  stir  and 
chatter  of  the  people  coming  home  from 
Mass.  He  didn’t  feel  the  time  slipping  by 
him  while  his  mind  was  on  the  tricks  of  the 
boys.  Some  of  the  people  saluted  him  going 
past,  and  he  saluted  them.  When  he  gave 

236 


IOSAGAN 


an  eye  on  the  group  of  boys  again,  the 
strange  boy  wasn’t  among  them. 

The  Sunday  after  that,  Old  Matthias  wras 
sitting  beside  his  door,  as  usual.  The  people 
were  gathered  west  to  Mass.  The  young 
folk  were  running  and  throwing  jumps  on 
the  green.  Running  and  throwing  jumps 
along  with  them  was  the  strange  child. 
Matthias  looked  at  him  for  a long  time,  for 
he  gave  the  love  of  his  heart  to  him  on 
account  of  the  beauty  of  his  person  and  the 
brightness  of  his  countenance.  At  last  he 
called  over  one  of  the  little  boys  : 

“ Who’s  yon  boy  I see  among  you  for  a 
fortnight  back,  Coilin  ? ” says  he — “ he  there 
with  the  brown  head  on  him, — but  have  a 
care  that  it’s  not  reddish-fair  he  is  : I don’t 
know  is  it  dark  or  fair  he  is,  and  the  way 
the  sun  is  burning  on  him.  Do  you  see 
him  now — that  one  that’s  running  towards 
us?” 

“ That’s  Iosagan,”  says  the  little  lad. 

“ Iosagan  ? ” 

“ That’s  the  name  he  gives  himself.” 

“ Who  are  his  people?  ” 

“ I don’t  know,  but  he  says  his  father’s 
a king.” 


237 


IOSAGAN 


“ Where  does  he  live?  ” 

“ He  never  told  us  that,  but  he  says  that 
it’s  not  far  from  us  his  house  is.” 

“ Does  he  be  along  with  you  often  ? ” 

“ Aye,  when  we  do  be  spending  time  to 
ourselves  like  this.  But  he  goes  from  us 
when  a grown  person  is  present.  Look ! 
he’s  gone  already  ! ” 

The  old  man  looked,  and  there  was  no 
one  in  it  but  the  boys  he  knew.  The  child, 
the  little  boy  called  Iosagan,  was  missing. 
The  same  moment,  the  noise  and  bustle  of 
the  people  were  heard  returning  from 
Mass. 

The  next  Sunday  everything  fell  out 
exactly  as  it  fell  on  the  two  Sundays  before 
that.  The  people  gathered  west  as  usual, 
and  the  old  man  and  the  children  were  left 
by  themselves  in  the  village.  The  heart  of 
Old  Matthias  gave  a leap  in  his  middle 
when  he  saw  the  Holy  Child  among  them 
again. 

He  rose.  He  went  over  and  he  stood 
near  Him.  After  a time,  standing  without 
a move,  he  stretched  his  two  hands  towards 
Him,  and  he  spoke  in  a low  voice  : 

“ Iosagan  ! 


238 


IOSAGAN 


The  Child  heard  him,  and  He  came 
towards  him,  running. 

“ Come  here  and  sit  on  my  knee  for  a 
little  while,  Iosagan.” 

The  Child  put  His  hand  in  the  thin, 
knuckly  hand  of  the  old  man,  and  they 
travelled  side  by  side  across  the  road.  Old 
Matthias  sat  on  his  chair,  and  drew  Iosagan 
to  his  breast. 

“ Where  do  You  live,  Iosagan  ? ” says  he, 
speaking  low  always. 

“ Not  far  from  this  My  House  is.  Why 
don’t  you  come  on  a visit  to  Me?  ” 

“ I’d  be  afraid  in  a royal  house.  It’s  told 
me  that  Your  Father’s  a King.” 

“ He  is  High-King  of  the  World.  But 
there  is  no  need  for  you  to  be  afraid  of  Him. 
He  is  full  of  mercy  and  love.” 

“ I fear  I haven’t  kept  His  law.” 

“ Ask  forgiveness  of  Him.  I and  My 
Mother  will  make  intercession  for  you.” 

“ It’s  a pity  I didn’t  see  You  before  this, 
Iosagan.  Where  were  You  from  me?  ” 

“ I was  here  always.  I do  be  travelling 
the  roads,  and  walking  the  hills,  and  plough- 
ing the  waves.  I do  be  among  the  people 
when  they  gather  into  My  House.  I do  be 

239 


IOSAGAN 


among  the  children  they  do  leave  behind 
them  playing  on  the  street.” 

“ I was  too  timid — or  too  proud — to  go 
into  Your  House,  Iosagan  ; but  I found  You 
among  the  children.” 

“ There  isn’t  any  time  or  place  that 
children  do  be  amusing  themselves  that  I 
am  not  along  with  them.  Times  they  see 
Me;  other  times  they  do  not  see  Me.” 

“ I never  saw  You  till  lately.” 

“ The  grown  people  do  be  blind.” 

“ And  it  h as  been  granted  me  to  see  You, 
Iosagan  ? ” 

“ My  Father  gave  Me  leave  to  show  Myself 
to  you,  because  you  loved  His  little 
children.” 

The  voices  were  heard  of  the  people 
returning  from  Mass. 

“ I must  go  now  from  you.” 

“Let  me' kiss  the  border  of  Your  coat, 
Iosagan.” 

“ Kiss  it.” 

“ Shall  I see  You  again  ? ” 

“ You  will.” 

“ When?” 

“ This  night.” 

With  that  word  He  was  gone. 

240 


IOSAGAN 


“ I will  see  Him  this  night  ! ” says  Old 
Matthias,  and  he  going  into  the  house. 


• ••••••• 

The  night  came  wet  and  stormy.  The 
great  waves  were  heard  breaking  with  a 
booming  roar  against  the  strand.  The  trees 
round  the  chapel  were  swaying  and  bending 
with  the  strength  of  the  wind.  (The 
chapel  is  on  a little  hill  that  falls  down 
with  a slope  to  the  sea.)  Father  Sean  was 
on  the  point  of  closing  his  book  and  saying 
his  Rosary  when  he  heard  a noise,  as  it 
would  be  somebody  knocking  at  the  door. 
He  listened  for  a spell.  He  heard  the 
noise  again.  He  rose  from  the  fire,  went  to 
the  door,  and  opened  it.  A little  boy  was 
standing  on  the  door-flag — a boy  the  priest 
didn’t  mind  ever  to  have  seen  before.  He 
had  a white  coat  on  him,  and  he  without 
shoes  or  cap.  The  priest  thought  that 
there  were  rays  of  light  shining  from  his 
countenance,  and  about  his  head.  The 
moon  that  was  shining  on  his  brown,  comely 
head,  it’s  like. 

“ Who  have  I here  ? ” says  Father  Sean. 

“ Put  on  you  as  quickly  as  you’re  able, 

241  R 


IOSAGAN 


Father,  and  strike  east  to  the  house  of 
Old  Matthias.  He  is  in  the  mouths  of 
death. ” 

The  priest  didn’t  want  the  second  word. 

“ Sit  here  till  I ’m  ready,”  says  he.  But  when 
he  came  back,  the  little  messenger  was  gone. 

Father  Sean  struck  the  road,  and  he  didn’t 
take  long  to  finish  the  journey,  though  the 
wind  was  against  him,  and  it  raining  heavily. 
There  was  a light  in  Old  Matthias’s  house 
before  him.  He  took  the  latch  from  the 
door,  and  went  in. 

“ Who  is  this  coming  to  me?”  says  a voice 
from  the  old  man’s  bed. 

“ The  priest.” 

“ I’d  like  to  speak  to  you,  Father.  Sit 
here  beside  me.”  The  voice  was  feeble,  and 
the  words  came  slowly  from  him. 

The  priest  sat  down,  and  heard  Old 
Matthias’s  story  from  beginning  to  end. 
Whatever  secret  was  in  the  old  body’s 
heart  it  was  laid  bare  to  the  servant  of  God 
there  in  the  middle  of  the  night.  When 
the  confession  was  over,  Old  Matthias 
received  communion,  and  he  was  anointed. 

“ Who  told  you  that  I was  wanting  you, 
Father?”  says  he  in  a weak, low  voice,  when 

242 


IOSAGAN 


everything  was  done.  “ I was  praying  God 
that  you’d  come,  but  I hadn’t  any  messenger 
to  send  for  you.” 

“ But,  sure,  you  did  send  a messenger  to 
me  ?”  says  the  priest,  and  great  wonder  on  him. 

“ I didn’t.” 

“ You  didn’t  ? But  a little  boy  came, 
and  he  knocked  at  my  door,  and  he  said  to 
me  that  you  were  wanting  my  help  ! ” 

The  old  man  sat  up  straight  in  the  bed. 
There  was  a flashing  in  his  eyes. 

“ What  sort  was  the  little  boy  was  in  it, 
Father  ? ” 

“ A gentle  little  boy,  with  a white  coat 
on  him.” 

“ Did  you  take  notice  was  there  a haze 
of  light  about  his  head?” 

“ I did,  and  it  put  great  wonder  on  me.” 

Old  Matthias  looked  up,  there  came  a 
smile  on  his  mouth,  and  he  stretched  out 
his  two  arms  : 

“ Iosagan  ! ” says  he. 

With  that  word,  he  fell  back  on  the  bed. 
The  priest  went  hither  to  him  softly,  and 
closed  his  eyes. 


243 


THE  PRIEST 


THE  PRIEST 

It’s  in  yon  little  house  you  see  in  the  glen 
below  you,  and  you  going  down  the  road 
from  Gortmore  to  Inver,  that  my  Priest 
lives.  Himself  and  his  mother,  and  his  little 
sister,  and  his  little,  small,  wee  brother, — 
those  are  the  family  in  it.  The  father  died 
before  Taimeen,  the  youngest  child  of  them, 
was  born.  There’s  no  time  I do  be  in 
Rossnageeragh  but  I spend  an  evening  or 
two  along  with  them,  for  the  Priest  and 
Maireen  (the  little  sister)  and  Taimeen  are 
the  dearest  friends  I have.  A soft,  youngish- 
looking  woman  the  Priest’s  mother  is  ; she’s 
a bit  headstrong,  maybe,  but  if  she  is  itself 
she’s  as  kind-hearted  a woman  as  is  living, 
after  that.  ’Twas  she  told  me  this  story 
one  evening  that  I was  on  a visit  to  her. 
She  was  washing  the  Priest,  meanwhile, 
before  the  fire : a big  tub  of  water  laid  on 
the  floor  beside  her,  the  Priest  and  his  share 
of  clothes  stripped  from  him,  and  she  rub- 
bing and  scrubbing  every  inch  of  his  body. 
I have  my  doubts  that  this  work  agreed  too 

247 


THE  PRIEST 


well  with  the  Priest,  for  now  and  again  he’d 
let  a screech  out  of  him.  With  every 
screech  his  mother  would  give  him  a little 
slap,  and  after  that  she’d  kiss  him.  It’s 
hard  for  a mother  to  keep  her  hand  off  a 
child  when  she  has  him  bare ; and  ’twould 
be  harder  than  that  for  a mother,  as  loving 
as  this  mother,  to  keep  her  mouth  from  a 
wee,  red  moutheen  as  sweet  as  Paraig’s 
(Paraig’s  my  Priest’s  name,  you  know).  I 
ought  to  say  that  the  Priest  was  only  eight 
years  old  yet.  He  was  a lovely  picture, 
standing  there,  and  the  firelight  shining  on 
his  well-knit  body  and  on  his  curly  head, 
and  dancing  in  his  grey,  laughing  eyes. 
When  I think  on  Paraig,  it’s  that  way  I see 
him  before  me,  standing  on  the  floor  in  the 
brightening  of  the  fire. 

But  in  regard  to  the  story.  About  a 
year  before  this  it  is  it  fell  out.  Nora  (the 
mother)  was  working  about  the  house. 
Maireen  and  Taimeen  were  amusing  them- 
selves on  the  floor.  “ Fromso  Framso  ” they 
had  going  on.  Maireen  was  trying  to  teach 
the  words  to  Taimeen,  a thing  that  was 
failing  on  her,  for  Taimeen  hadn’t  any  talk 
yet.  You  know  the  words,  I suppose? — 

248 


THE  PRIEST 


they’re  worth  learning,  for  there’s  true 
poetry  in  them : 

“ Fromso  Fra  ms  0, — 

A woman  dancing, 

That  would  make  sport, 

That  would  drink  ale, 

That  would  be  in  time 

Here  in  the  morning ! ” 

Nora  wanted  a can  of  water  to  make  tea. 
It  was  supper-time. 

“ Where’s  Paraig,  Maireen  ? ” says  she. 
“ He’s  lost  this  half-hour.” 

“ He  went  into  the  room,  mameen.” 

“ Paraig!”  says  the  mother,  calling 
loudly. 

Not  a word  from  within. 

“ Do  you  hear,  Paraig?  ” 

Never  a word. 

“ What’s  wrong  with  the  boy  ? Paraig, 
I say  ! ” says  she,  as  loud  as  it  was  in  her 
head. 

“ I’ll  be  out  presently,  mama,”  says  a 
voice  from  the  room. 

“ Hurry  with  you,  son.  It’s  tea-time, 
and  devil  a tear  of  water  have  I in  the 
house.” 

249 


THE  PRIEST 


Paraig  came  out  of  the  room. 

“ You’re  found  at  last.  Push  on  down 
with  you, — but  what’s  this?  Where  did 
you  get  that  shirt,  or  why  is  it  on  you  ? 
What  were  you  doing?  ” 

Paraig  was  standing  in  the  door,  like  a 
stake.  A shirt  was  fastened  on  him  over 
his  little  coat.  He  looked  down  on  himself. 
His  face  was  red-burning  to  the  ears. 

“ I forgot  to  take  it  off  me,  mama,”  says 
he. 

“ Why  is  it  on  you  at  all?  ” 

“ Sport  I was  having.” 

66  Take  it  off  you  this  minute  ! The  rod 
you  want,  yourself  and  your  sport ! ” 

Paraig  took  off  the  shirt  without  a word 
and  left  it  back  in  the  room. 

“ Brush  down  to  the  well  now  and  get  a 
can  of  water  for  me,  like  a pet.”  Nora 
already  regretted  that  she  spoke  as  harshly 
as  that.  It’s  a woman’s  anger  that  isn’t 
lasting. 

Paraig  took  the  can  and  whipped  off  with 
it.  Michileen  Enda,  a neighbour’s  boy, 
came  in  while  he  was  out. 

“ It  beats  me,  Michileen,”  says  Nora, 
after  a spell,  “ to  make  out  what  Paraig  does 

250 


THE  PRIEST 


be  doing  in  that  room  the  length  of  the 
evening.  No  sooner  has  he  his  dinner 
eaten  every  day  than  he  clears  off  in  there, 
and  he’s  lost  till  supper-time.” 

“ Some  sport  he  does  have  on  foot,”  says 
Michileen. 

“ That’s  what  he  says  himself.  But  it’s 
not  in  the  house  a lad  like  him  ought  to  be 
stuck  on  a fine  evening,  but  outside  in  the 
air,  tearing  away.” 

“ 4 A body’s  will  is  his  delight,’  ” says 
Michileen,  reddening  his  pipe. 

“ One  apart  is  Paraig,  anyhow,”  says 
Nora.  “ He’s  the  most  contrary  son  you 
ever  saw.  Times,  three  people  wouldn’t 
watch  him,  and  other  times  you  wouldn’t 
feel  him  in  the  house.” 

Paraig  came  in  at  this,  and  no  more  was 
said  on  the  question.  He  didn’t  steal  away 
this  time,  but  instead  of  that  he  sat  down  on 
the  floor,  playing  “ Fromso  Framso  ” with 
Maireen  and  Taimeen. 

• ••••• 

The  dinner  was  on  the  table  when  Paraig 
came  home  from  school  the  next  evening. 
He  ate  his  share  of  stirabout  and  he  drank 

251 


THE  PRIEST 


his  noggin  of  milk,  thankfully  and  with 
blessing.  As  soon  as  he  had  eaten  and 
drunk,  he  took  his  satchel  of  books  and  west 
with  him  into  the  room,  as  was  his  habit. 

The  mother  didn’t  let  on  that  she  was 
giving  any  heed  to  him.  But,  after  a couple 
of  minutes,  she  opened  the  door  of  the  room 
quietly,  and  stuck  the  tip  of  her  nose  inside. 
Paraig  didn’t  notice  her,  but  she  had  a view 
of  everything  that  was  going  on  in  the  room. 

It  was  a queer  sight.  Paraig  was  stand- 
ing beside  the  table  and  he  dressed  in  the 
shirt  again.  Outside  of  this,  and  back  over 
his  shoulders,  he  was  fixing  a red  bodice  of 
his  mother’s,  that  she  had  hanging  on  the 
wall.  When  he  had  this  arranged  properly, 
he  took  out  the  biggest  book  he  had  in  his 
satchel — the  “ Second  Book  ” it  was,  I 
believe — he  opened  it,  and  laid  it  before 
him  on  the  table,  propped  against  the  look- 
ing-glass. 

It’s  then  began  the  antics  in  earnest. 
Paraig  stood  out  opposite  the  table,  bent  his 
knee,  blessed  himself,  and  began  praying 
loudly.  It’s  not  well  Nora  was  able  to 
understand  him,  but,  as  she  thought,  he  had 
Latin  and  Gaelic  mixed  through  other,  and 

252 


THE  PRIEST 


an  odd  word  that  wasn’t  like  Latin  or  Gaelic. 
Once,  it  seemed  to  her,  she  heard  the  words 
“ Fro?nso  Framso ,”  but  she  wasn’t  sure. 
Whatever  wonder  was  on  Nora  at  this,  it 
was  seven  times  greater  the  wonder  was  on 
her  when  she  saw  Paraig  genuflecting,  beat- 
ing his  breast,  kissing  the  table,  letting  on 
he  was  reading  Latin  prayers  out  of  the 
“ Second  Book,”  and  playing  one  trick  odder 
than  another.  She  didn’t  know  rightly 
what  he  was  up  to,  till  he  turned  round  and 
said : 

“ Do  minus  v obis  cum  ! ” 

“ God  save  us  ! ” says  she  to  herself  when 
she  saw  this.  “ He’s  pretending  that  he’s 
a priest  and  he  reading  Mass ! That’s  the 
Mass  vestment  he’s  wearing,  and  the  little 
Gaelic  book  is  the  book  of  the  Mass ! ” 

It’s  no  exaggeration  to  say  that  Nora 
was  scared.  She  came  back  to  the  kitchen 
and  sat  before  the  fire.  She  didn’t  know 
what  she  ought  to  do.  She  was  between 
two  advices,  which  of  them  would  be  seem- 
liest for  her — to  put  Paraig  across  her  knee 
and  give  him  a good  whipping,  or  to  go 
on  her  two  knees  before  him  and  beg  his 
blessing  ! 


253 


THE  PRIEST 


“ How  do  I know,”  says  she  to  herself, 
“ that  it’s  not  a terrible  sin  for  me  to  let  him 
make  a mimic  of  the  priest  like  that  ? But 
how  do  I know,  after  that,  that  it’s  not  a 
saint  out  of  heaven  I have  in  the  house? 
And,  sure,  it  would  be  a dreadful  sin  to  lay 
hand  on  a saint ! May  God  forgive  it  to 
me,  it’s  often  I laid  the  track  of  my  fingers 
on  him  already  ! I don’t  know  either  way. 
I’m  in  a strait,  surely  ! ” Nora  didn’t  sleep 
a wink  that  night  with  putting  this  question 
through  other. 

The  next  morning,  as  soon  as  Paraig  was 
cleared  off  to  school,  Nora  put  the  lock  on  the 
door,  left  the  two  young  children  under  the 
care  of  Michileen’s  mother,  and  struck 
the  road  to  Rossnageeragh.  She  didn’t  stop 
till  she  came  to  the  parish  priest’s  house 
and  told  her  story  to  Father  Ronan  from 
start  to  finish.  The  priest  only  smiled,  but 
Nora  was  with  him  till  she  drew  a promise 
from  him  that  he’d  take  the  road  out  to  her 
that  evening.  She  whipped  home  then, 
satisfied. 

The  priest  didn’t  fail  her.  He  struck  in 
to  her  in  the  evening.  Timely  enough, 
Paraig  was  in  the  room  “ reading  Mass.” 

254 


THE  PRIEST 


“ On  your  life,  don’t  speak,  Father  ! ” 
says  Nora.  “ He’s  within.” 

The  two  stole  over  on  their  tiptoes  to  the 
room  door.  They  looked  inside.  Paraig 
was  dressed  in  the  shirt  and  bodice,  exactly 
as  he  was  the  day  before  that,  and  he  pray- 
ing piously.  The  priest  stood  a spell  looking 
at  him. 

At  last  my  lad  turned  round,  and  setting 
his  face  towards  the  people,  as  it  would  be  : 

“ Orate fratres”  says  he,  out  loud. 

While  this  was  saying,  he  saw  his  mother 
and  the  priest  in  the  door.  He  reddened, 
and  stood  without  a stir. 

“ Come  here  to  me,”  says  Father  Ronan. 

Paraig  came  over  timidly. 

“ What’s  this  you  have  going  on?  ” says 
the  priest. 

“ I was  reading  Mass,  Father,”  says  Paraig. 
He  said  this  much  shyly,  but  it  was  plain  he 
didn’t  think  that  he  had  done  anything  out  of 
the  way — and,  sure,  it’s  not  much  he  had. 
But  poor  Nora  was  on  a tremble  with 
fear. 

“ Don’t  be  too  hard  on  him,  Father,” 
says  she.  “ He’s  only  young.” 

The  priest  laid  his  hand  lightly  on  the 

255 


THE  PRIEST 


white  head  of  the  little  lad,  and  he  spoke 
gently  and  kindly  to  him. 

“ You’re  too  young  yet,  Paraigeen,”  says 
he,  44  to  be  a priest,  and  it’s  not  granted  to 
anyone  but  to  God’s  priest  to  say  the  Mass. 
But  whisper  here  to  me.  Would  you  like 
to  be  serving  Mass  on  Sunday?  ” 

Paraig’s  eyes  lit  up  and  his  cheek  reddened 
again,  not  with  shyness  this  time  but  with 
sheer  delight. 

44  Ora , I would,  Father,”  says  he  ; 14  I’d 
like  nothing  at  all  better.” 

44  That  will  do,”  says  the  priest.  44  I see 
you  have  some  of  the  prayers  already.” 

44  But,  Father,  a mhuirnin  ” — says  Nora, 
and  stopped  like  that,  suddenly. 

44  What’s  on  you  now?  ” says  the  priest. 
44  Breeches  nor  brogues  he  hasn’t  worn 
yet ! ” says  she.  44  I think  it  early  to  put 
breeches  on  him  till  — ” 

The  priest  burst  out  laughing. 

44  I never  heard,”  says  he,  44  that  there 
was  call  for  breeches.  We’ll  put  a little 
cassock  out  over  his  coat,  and  I warrant  it’ll 
fit  him  nicely.  As  for  shoes,  we’ve  a pair 
that  Martin  the  Fisherman  left  behind  him 
when  he  went  to  Clifden.  We’ll  dress  you 

256 


THE  PRIEST 


right,  Paraig,  no  fear,”  says  he.  And  like 
that  it  was  settled. 


When  the  priest  was  gone,  the  mother 
stooped  down  and  kissed  her  little  son. 

“ My  love  you  are  ! ” says  she. 

Going  to  sleep  that  night,  the  last  words 
she  said  to  herself  were : “ My  little  son 
will  be  a priest ! And  how  do  I know,” 
says  she,  closing  her  eyes,  “ how  do  I know 
that  it’s  not  a bishop  he  might  be  by-and- 
byf  ” 


257 


s 


BARBARA 


BARBARA 


Barbara  wasn’t  too  well-favoured,  the  best 
day  she  was.  Anybody  would  admit  that 
much.  The  first  cause  of  it, — she  was  pur- 
blind. You’d  say,  to  look  at  her,  she  was 
one-eyed.  Brideen  never  gave  in  that  she 
was,  however.  Once  when  another  little 
girl  said,  out  of  sheer  spite  on  them  both, 
that  Barbara  had  only  “ one  blind  little  eye, 
like  the  tailor’s  cat,”  Brideen  said  angrily 
that  Barbara  had  her  two  eyes  as  good  as 
anybody,  but  it’s  how  she’d  have  one  eye 
shut,  for  the  one  was  enough  for  her  (let  it 
be  blind),  to  do  her  share  of  work.  How- 
ever it  was,  it  couldn’t  be  hidden  that  she 
was  bald ; and  I declare  a bald  head  isn’t  a 
nice  thing  in  a young  woman.  Another 
thing,  she  was  a dummy ; or  it  would  be 
more  correct  for  me  to  say,  that  she  didn’t 
ever  speak  with  anybody,  but  with  Brideen 
only.  If  Brideen  told  truth,  she  had  a tasty 
tongue  of  Irish,  and  her  share  of  thoughts 
were  the  loveliest  in  the  world.  It’s  not 
well  she  could  walk,  for  she  was  one-legged, 

261 


BARBARA 


and  that  one  leg  itself  broken.  She  had  two 
legs  on  a time,  but  the  dog  ate  one  of  them, 
and  the  other  was  broken  where  she  fell 
from  the  top  of  the  dresser. 

But  who’s  Barbara,  say  you,  or  who’s 
Brideen  ? Brideen  is  the  little  girl,  or,  as 
she’d  say  herself,  the  little  slip  of  a woman, 
that  lives  in  the  house  next  the  master’s, — 
on  the  left-hand  side,  I think,  going  up  the 
road.  It’s  likely  you  know  her  now?  If 
you  don’t,  I can’t  help  you.  I never  heard 
who  her  people  were,  and  she  herself  said  to 
me  that  her  father  has  ne’er  a name  but 
“ Daddy.”  As  for  Barbara, — well,  it’s  as  good 
for  me  to  tell  you  her  adventures  and  travels 
from  start  to  finish. 


THE  ADVENTURES  OF  BARBARA  HERE. 

One  day  when  Brideen’s  mother  got  up, 
she  gave  their  breakfasts  to  Brideen  and  to 
her  father,  to  the  dog,  to  the  little  cat,  to 
the  calves,  to  the  hens,  to  the  geese,  to  the 
ducks,  and  to  the  little  robin  redbreast  that 
would  come  to  the  door  at  breakfast-time 
every  morning.  When  she  had  that  much 

262 


BARBARA 


done,  she  ate  her  own  breakfast.  Then  she 
began  readying  herself  for  the  road. 

Brideen  was  sitting  on  her  own  little  stool 
without  a word  out  of  her,  but  she  putting 
the  eyes  through  her  mother.  At  long  last 
she  spoke : 

“ Is  mama  going  from  Brideen  ? ” 

“ She’s  not,  a stoir.  Mama  will  come 

again  in  the  evening.  She’s  going  to 
Galway.” 

“ Is  Brideen  going  there,  too  ? ” 

“ She’s  not,  a chuid . The  road’s  too  long, 
and  my  little  girl  would  be  tired.  She’ll 
stay  at  home  making  sport  for  herself,  like 
a good  little  girl  would.  Won’t  she  stay  ? ” 
“ She  will.” 

“ She  won’t  run  out  on  the  street  ? ” 

“ She  won’t.” 

“ Daddy’ll  come  in  at  dinner-time,  and 
ye’ll  have  a meal  together.  Give  mama  a 
kiss,  now.” 

The  kiss  was  given,  and  the  mother  was 
going.  Brideen  started  up. 

“ Mama  ! ” 

“ What  is  it  a ruin  ? ” 

“Won’t  you  bring  home  a fairing  to 
Brideen  ? ” 


263 


BARBARA 


“ I will,  a chuid.  A pretty  fairing.” 

The  mother  went  off,  andBrideen  remained 
contented  at  home.  She  sat  down  on  her 
little  stool.  The  dog  was  curled  before  the 
fire,  and  he  snoring.  Bridecn  woke  him  up, 
and  put  a whisper  in  his  ear  : 

“ Mama  will  bring  home  a fairing  to 
Brideen  ! ” 

“ WufF!  ” says  the  dog,  and  went  asleep  to 
himself  again.  Brideen  knew  that  “ Wuff ! ” 
was  the  same  as  “ Good  news ! ” 

The  little  cat  was  sitting  on  the  hearth. 
Brideen  lifted  it  in  her  two  arms,  rubbed  its 
face  to  her  cheeks,  and  put  a whisper  in  its 
ear  : 

“ Mama  will  bring  home  a fairing  to 
Brideen  ! ” 

“ Mec-ow  ! ” says  the  little  cat.  Brideen 
knew  that  “ Mee-ow  ! ” was  the  same  as 
“ Good  news  ! ” 

She  laid  the  little  cat  from  her,  and  went 
about  the  house  singing  to  herself.  She  made 
a little  song  as  follows : 

“ O little  dog,  and  O little  dog  ! 

Sleep  a while  till  my  mama  comes  ! 

O little  cat,  and  O little  cat  ! 

264 


BARBARA 


Be  purring  till  she  comes  home  ! 

O little  dog,  and  O little  cat  ! 

At  the  fair  O ! my  mama  is, 

But  she’ll  come  again  in  the  little 
evening  O ! 

And  she’ll  bring  home  a fairing 
with  her ! ” 

She  tried  to  teach  this  song  to  the  dog, 
but  it’s  greater  the  wish  the  dog  had  for 
sleep  than  for  music.  She  tried  to  teach 
it  to  the  little  cat,  but  the  little  cat  thought 
its  own  purring  sweeter.  When  her  father 
came  in  at  midday,  nothing  would  do  her 
but  to  say  this  song  to  him,  and  make  him 
to  learn  it  by  heart. 

The  mother  returned  home  before  even- 
ing. The  first  word  Brideen  said  was  : 

“ Did  you  bring  the  fairing  with  you, 
mama  ? ” 

“ I did,  a chilis lc” 

“ What  did  you  bring  with  you  ? ” 

“ Guess  ! ” The  mother  was  standing 
in  the  middle  of  the  floor.  She  had  her 
bag  laid  on  the  floor,  and  her  hands  behind 
her. 

“ Sweets  ? ” 


265 


BARBARA 


44  No  ! ” 

44  A sugar  cake  ? ” 

46  No,  muise  ! I have  a sugar  cake  in  my 
bag,  but  that’s  not  the  fairing,” 

44  A pair  of  stockings  ? ” Brideen  never 
wore  shoes  or  stockings,  and  she  had  been 
long  coveting  them. 

44  No,  indeed  ! You’re  too  young  for 
stockings  a little  while  yet.” 

44  A prayer  book?”  There’s  no  need 
for  me  to  say  that  Brideen  wasn’t  able  to 
read  (for  she  hadn’t  put  in  a day  at  school 
in  her  life),  but  she  thought  she  was.  44  A 
prayer  book  ? ” says  she. 

44  Not  at  all  ! ” 

44  What  is  it,  then  ? ” 

44  Look  ! ” 

The  mother  spread  out  ner  two  hands, 
and  what  did  she  lay  bare  but  a little  doll ! 
A little  wooden  doll  that  was  bald,  and  it 
purblind  ; but  its  two  cheeks  were  as  red  as 
a berry,  and  there  was  a smile  on  its  mouth. 
Anybody  who’d  have  an  affection  for  dolls, 
he  would  give  affection  and  love  to  it. 
Brideen’s  eyes  lit  up  with  joy. 

44  Ora , isn’t  it  pretty  ! Aray  mama,  heart, 
where  did  you  get  it  ? Ora  6 ! I’ll  have 

266 


BARBARA 


a child  of  my  very  own  now, — a child  of 
my  very  owneen  own  ! Brideen  will  have 
a child  ! ” 

She  snatched  the  little  doll,  and  she  squeezed 
it  to  her  heart.  She  kissed  its  little  bald 
head,  and  its  two  red  cheeks.  She  kissed 
its  little  mouth,  and  its  little  snub  nose. 
Then  she  remembered  herself,  raised  her 
head,  and  says  she  to  her  mother  : 

“ Kith  ! ” (like  that  Brideen  would  say 
“ Kiss.”) 

The  mother  stooped  down  till  the  little 
girl  kissed  her.  Then  she  must  kiss  the 
little  doll.  The  father  came  in  at  that 
moment,  and  he  was  made  do  the  same. 

There  wasn’t  a thing  making  Brideen 
anxious  that  evening  but  what  name  she’d 
christen  the  doll.  Her  mother  praised 
“ Molly  ” for  it,  and  her  father  thought 
the  name  “ Peggy  ” would  be  apt.  But 
none  of  these  were  grand  enough,  it  seemed 
to  Brideen. 

“ Why  was  I called  Brideen,  daddy  ? ” 
says  she  after  supper. 

“ The  old  women  said  that  you  were  like 
your  uncle  Padraic,  and  since  we  couldn’t 
christen  you  c Padraic,’  you  were  christened 

267 


BARBARA 

‘ Brigid,’  as  that,  we  thought,  was  the  thing 
nearest  it.” 

“ Do  you  think  is  she  here”  (the  doll), 
“like  my  uncle  Padraic,  daddy  ?” 

“ O,  not  like  a bit.  Your  uncle  Padraic 
is  fair-haired, — and,  I believe,  he  has  a 
beard  on  him  now.” 

“ Who's  she  like,  then  ? ” 

“ Muise , ’twould  be  hard  to  say,  girl  ! — 
’twould  be  hard,  that.” 

Brideen  meditated  for  a while.  Her 
father  was  stripping  her  clothes  from  her  in 
front  of  the  fire  during  this  time,  for  it  was 
time  for  her  to  be  going  to  sleep.  When 
she  was  stripped,  she  went  on  her  knees, 
put  her  two  little  hands  together,  and  she 
began  like  this  : 

“ O Jesus  Christ,  bless  us  and  save  us  ! O 
Jesus  Christ,  bless  daddy  and  mama  and 
Brideen,  and  keep  us  safe  and  well  from 
accident,  and  from  the  harm  of  the  year,  if 
it  is  the  will  of  my  Saviour.  O God,  bless 
my  uncle  Padraic  that’s  now  in  America, 
and  my  Aunt  Barbara  — .”  She  stopped, 

suddenly,  and  put  a shout  of  joy  out 
of  her. 

“ I have  it  ! I have  it,  daddy  ! ” says  she. 

268 


BARBARA 


“ What  have  you,  love  ? Wait  till  you 
finish  your  share  of  prayers.” 

“ My  Aunt  Barbara  1 She’s  like  my 
Aunt  Barbara  ! ” 

“ Who’s  like  your  Aunt  Barbara  ? ” 

“ The  little  doll  ! That’s  the  name  I’ll 
give  her  ! Barbara  !” 

The  father  let  a great  shout  of  laughter 
before  he  remembered  that  the  prayers 
weren’t  finished.  Brideen  didn’t  laugh,  at 
all,  but  followed  on  like  this  : 

“ O God,  bless  my  Uncle  Padaric  that’s 
now  in  America,  and  my  Aunt  Barbara, 
and  (this  is  an  addition  she  put  to  it 
herself),  and  bless  my  own  little  Barbara, 
and  keep  her  from  mortal  sin  ! Amen, 
O Lord  ! ” 

The  father  burst  laughing  again.  Brid- 
een looked  at  him,  and  wonder  on  her. 

“ Brush  off,  now,  and  in  into  your  bed 
with  you  ! ” says  he,  as  soon  as  he  could 
speak  for  the  laughing.  “ And  don’t  for- 
get Barbara  ! ” says  he. 

“ Little  fear  ! ” West  with  her  into  the 
room,  and  into  the  bed  with  her  with  a 
leap.  Be  sure  she  didn’t  forget  Barbara. 
From  that  night  out  Brideen  wouldn’t 

269 


BARBARA 


go  to  sleep,  for  gold  nor  for  silver,  without 
Barbara  being  in  the  bed  with  her.  She 
wouldn’t  sit  to  take  food  without  Barbara 
sitting  beside  her.  She  wouldn’t  go  out 
making  fun  to  herself  without  Barbara 
being  along  with  her.  One  Sunday  that 
her  mother  brought  her  with  her  to  Mass, 
Brideen  wasn’t  satisfied  till  Barbara  was 
brought,  too.  A neighbour  woman  wouldn’t 
come  in  visiting,  but  Barbara  would  be 
introduced  to  her.  One  day  that  the  priest 
struck  in  to  them,  Brideen  asked  him  to 
give  Barbara  his  blessing.  He  gave  his 
blessing  to  Brideen  herself.  She  thought 
it  was  to  the  doll  he  gave  it,  and  she  was 
full-satisfied. 

Brideen  settled  a nice  little  parlour  for 
Barbara  on  top  of  the  dresser.  She  heard 
that  her  Aunt  Barbara  had  a parlour  (in 
Uachtar  Ard  she  was  living), and  she  thought 
that  it  wasn’t  too  much  for  Barbara  to  have 
a parlour  as  good  as  anybody.  My  poor 
Barbara  fell  from  the  top  of  the  dresser  one 
day,  as  I have  told  already,  and  one  of  her 
legs  was  broken.  It’s  many  a disaster  over 
that  happened  her.  Another  day  the  dog 
grabbed  her,  and  was  tearing  her  joint  from 

270 


BARBARA 


joint  till  Brideen’s  mother  came  to  help  her. 
The  one  leg  remained  safe  with  the  dog. 
She  fell  into  the  river  another  time,  and 
she  had  like  to  be  drowned.  It’s  Brideen’s 
father  that  came  to  her  help  this  journey. 
Brideen  herself  was  almost  drowned,  and 
she  trying  to  save  her  from  the  river- 
bank. 

If  Barbara  wasn’t  too  well-favoured  the 
first  day  she  came,  it  stands  to  nature  it’s 
not  better  the  appearance  was  on  her  after 
putting  a year  by  her.  But  ’twas  all  the 
same  to  Brideen  whether  she  was  well- 
favoured  or  ill-favoured.  She  gave  the 
love  of  her  heart  to  her  from  the  first 
minute  she  laid  an  eye  on  her,  and  it’s 
increasing  that  love  was  from  day  to  day. 
Isn’t  it  the  two  of  them  used  to  have  the 
fun  when  the  mother  would  leave  the  house 
to  their  care,  times  she’d  be  visiting  in  a 
neighbour’s  house  ! They  would  have  the 
floor  swept  and  the  plates  washed  before 
her,  when  she’d  return.  And  isn’t  it  on 
the  mother  would  be  the  wonder,  mor 
’ eadh  ! 

“ Is  it  Brideen  cleaned  the  floor  for  her 
mama  ? ” she’d  say. 


271 


BARBARA 


“ Bridccn  and  Barbara,”  the  little  girl 
would  say. 

“ Muise , I don't  know  what  I’d  do,  if  it 
weren't  for  the  pair  of  you  !”  the  mother 
would  say.  And  isn't  it  on  Brideen  would 
be  the  delight  and  the  pride  ! 

And  the  long  days  of  summer  they  would 
put  from  them  on  the  hillside,  among  the 
fern  and  flowers  ! — Brideen  gathering  daisies 
and  fairy-thimbles  and  buttercups,  and  Bar- 
bara reckoning  them  for  her  (so  she'd  say)  ; 
Brideen  forever  talking  and  telling  tales 
that  a human  being  (not  to  say  a little  doll) 
never  heard  the  likes  of  before  or  since, 
and  Barbara  listening  to  her  ; it  must  be 
she'd  be  listening  attentively,  for  there 
wouldn't  come  a word  out  of  her  mouth. 

It's  my  opinion  that  there  wasn't  a little 
girl  in  Connacht,  or  if  I might  say  it,  in 
the  Continent  of  Europe,  that  was  more 
contented  and  happy-like,  than  Brideen  was 
those  days  ; and,  I declare,  there  wasn't 
a little  doll  under  the  hollow  of  the  sun 
that  was  more  contented  and  happy-like  than 
Barbara. 

That's  how  it  stood  till  Niamh  Goldy- 
Head  came. 


272 


BARBARA 


II 

Niamh  Goldy-Head  was  a native  of 
Dublin.  A lady  that  came  to  Gortmore 
learning  Irish  promised  before  leaving  that 
she’d  send  some  valuable  to  Brideen.  And, 
sure,  she  did.  One  day,  about  a week  after 
her  departure,  Bartly  the  Postman  walked  in 
into  the  middle  of  the  kitchen  and  laid  a 
big  box  on  the  floor. 

“ For  you,  young  woman,”  says  he  to 
Brideen. 

“ Ara , what’s  in  it,  Bartly  ? ” 

“ How  do  I know?  A fairy,  maybe.” 

“ O bho  ! Where  did  you  get  it?  ” 

“ From  a little  green  maneen,  with  a 
long  blue  beard  on  him,  a red  cap  on  his 
nob,  and  he  riding  a hare.” 

“ Ora , daddy  ! And  what  did  he  say  to 
you,  Bartly  ? ” 

“ Devil  a thing  did  he  say  only,  ‘ Give 
this  to  Brideen,  and  my  blessing,’  and  off 
with  him  while  you’d  be  winking.” 

I am  doubtful  if  this  story  of  Bartly ’s 

273  T 


BARBARA 


was  all  true,  but  Brideen  believed  every 
word  of  it.  She  called  to  her  mother,  where 
she  was  inside  in  the  room  tidying  the  place 
after  the  breakfast. 

“ Mama,  mama,  a big  box  for  Brideen  ! 
A little  green  maneen,  with  a long  blue 
beard  on  him,  that  gave  it  to  Bartly  the 
Postman  ! ” 

The  mother  came  out  and  Bartly  gathered 
off. 

“ Mameen,  mameen,  open  the  box  quick  ! 
Bartly  thinks  it’s  maybe  a fairy  is  in  it ! 
Hurry,  mameen,  or  how  do  we  know  he 
won’t  be  smothered  inside  in  the  box?  ” 

The  mother  cut  the  string.  She  tore  the 
paper  from  the  box.  She  lifted  the  lid. 
What  should  be  in  it,  lying  nice  and  comfort- 
ably in  the  box,  like  a child  would  be  in  a 
cradle,  but  the  grandest  and  the  beautifullest 
doll  that  eye  ever  saw  ! There  was  yellow- 
golden  hair  on  it,  and  it  falling  in  ringleted 
tresses  over  its  breast  and  over  its  shoulders. 
There  was  the  blush  of  the  rose  on  its  cheek. 
It’s  the  likeness  I’d  compare  its  little  mouth 
to — two  rowanberries  ; and  ’twas  like  pearls 
its  teeth  were.  Its  eyes  were  closed.  There 
was  a bright  suit  of  silk  covering  its  body, 

274 


BARBARA 


and  a red  mantle  of  satin  over  that  outside. 
There  was  a glittering  necklace  of  noble 
stones  about  its  throat,  and,  as  a top  on  all 
the  wonders,  there  was  a royal  crown  on 
its  head. 

“ A Queen  ! ” says  Brideen  in  a whisper, 
for  there  was  a kind  of  dread  on  her  before 
this  glorious  fairy.  “ A Queen  from  Tir- 
na-nOg  ! Look,  mama,  she’s  asleep.  Do 
you  think  will  she  waken?  ” 

“ Take  her  in  your  hand,”  says  the 
mother. 

The  little  girl  stretched  out  her  two 
hands  timidly,  laid  them  reverently  on  the 
wonderful  doll,  and  at  last  lifted  it  out  of 
the  box.  No  sooner  did  she  take  it  than 
the  doll  opened  its  eyes,  and  said  in  a sweet, 
weeny  voice  : 

“ Mam — a ! ” 

46  God  bless  us  ! ” says  the  mother,  mak- 
ing the  sign  of  the  cross  on  herself,  44  she 
can  talk  ! ” 

There  was  a queer  edge  in  Brideen’s 
eyes,  and  there  was  a queer  light  in  her 
features.  But  I don’t  think  she  was  half  as 
scared  as  the  mother  was.  Children  do  be 
expecting  wonders  always,  and  when  a 

275 


BARBARA 


wonderful  thing  happens  it  doesn’t  put  as 
much  astonishment  on  them  as  it  does  on 
grown  people. 

“ Why  wouldn’t  she  talk  ? ” says  Brideen. 
“Can’t  Barbara  talk?  But  it’s  sweeter 
entirely  this  voice  than  Barbara’s  voice.” 
My  grief,  you  are,  Barbara ! Where 
were  you  all  this  time  ? Lying  on  the  floor 
where  you  fell  from  Brideen’s  hand  when 
Bartly  came  in.  I don’t  know  did  you 
hear  these  words  from  your  friend’s  mouth. 
If  you  did,  it’s  surely  they’d  go  like  a stitch 
through  your  heart. 

Brideen  continued  speaking.  She  spoke 
quickly,  her  two  eyes  dancing  in  her  head: 

“ A Queen  this  is,”  says  she.  “ A fairy 
Queen  ! Look  at  the  fine  suit  she’s  wear- 
ing ! Look  at  the  mantle  of  satin  is  on 
her  ! Look  at  the  beautiful  crown  she  has ! 
She’s  like  yon  Queen  that  Stephen  of  the 
Stories  was  discoursing  about  the  other 
night, — the  Queen  that  came  over  sea  from 
Tir-na-nOg  riding  on  the  white  steed. 
What’s  the  name  that  was  on  that  Queen, 
mama  ? ” 

“ Niamh  of  the  Golden  Head.” 

“ This  is  Niamh  Goldy-Head  ! ” says  the 

276 


BARBARA 


little  girl.  “ I’ll  show  her  to  Stephen  the 
first  other  time  he  comes  ! Isn’t  it  he  will 
be  glad  to  see  her,  mama?  He  was  angry 
the  other  night  when  my  daddy  said  there 
are  no  fairies  at  all  in  it.  I knew  my  daddy 
was  only  joking.” 

I wouldn’t  like  to  say  that  Niamh  Goldy- 
Head  was  a fairy,  as  Brideen  thought,  but 
I’m  sure  there  was  some  magic  to  do  with 
her  ; and  I’m  full-sure  that  Brideen  herself 
was  under  a spell  from  the  moment  she 
came  into  the  house.  If  she  weren’t,  she 
wouldn’t  leave  Barbara  lying  by  herself  on 
the  floor  through  the  evening,  without 
saying  a word  to  her,  or  even  remembering 
her,  till  sleep-time  ; nor  would  she  go  to 
sleep  without  bringing  Barbara  into  the  bed 
with  her,  as  was  her  habit.  It’s  with  trouble 
you’d  believe  it,  but  it’s  the  young  Queen 
that  slept  along  with  Brideen  that  night, 
instead  of  the  faithful  little  companion  that 
used  sleep  with  her  every  night  for  a year. 

Barbara  remained  lying  on  the  floor,  till 
Brideen’s  mother  found  her,  and  lifted  and 
put  her  on  top  of  the  dresser  where  her 
own  little  parlour  was.  Barbara  spent  that 
night  on  the  top  of  the  dresser.  I didn’t 

2 77 


BARBARA 


hear  that  Brideen  or  her  mother  or  her 
father  noticed  any  lamenting  from  the 
kitchen  in  the  middle  of  the  night,  and,  to  say 
truth,  I don’t  think  that  Barbara  shed  a tear. 
But  it’s  certain  she  was  sad  enough,  lying 
up  yonder  by  herself,  without  her  friend’s 
arm  about  her,  without  the  heat  of  her 
friend’s  body  warming  her,  without  man  or 
mortal  near  her,  without  hearing  a sound 
but  the  faint,  truly-lonesome  sounds  that  do 
be  heard  in  a house  in  the  dead  time  of  the 
night. 


278 


BARBARA 


III 

It’s  sitting  or  lying  on  the  top  of  the 
dresser  that  Barbara  spent  the  greater 
part  of  the  next  quarter.  ’Twas  seldom 
Brideen  used  speak  to  her  ; and  when  she 
would  speak,  she’d  only  say,  44  Be  a good 
girl,  Barbara.  You  see  I’m  busy.  I must 
give  attention  to  Niamh  Goldy-Head.  She’s 
a Queen,  you  know,  and  she  must  be 
attended  well.”  Brideen  was  getting  older 
now  (I  believe  she  was  five  years  past,  or, 
maybe,  five  and  a-half),  and  she  was  rising 
out  of  a share  of  the  habits  she  learned  at 
the  start  of  her  babyhood.  It’s  not  44  Bri- 
deen ” she’d  call  herself  now,  for  she  knew  ' 
the  meaning  that  was  in  the  little  word 
44  I,”  and  in  those  little  tails  44  am  ” and 
44  am  not”  when  they’re  put  after  44 1.”  She 
knew,  too,  that  it’s  great  the  respect  and 
the  honour  due  to  a Queen,  over  what  is  due 
to  a poor,  little  creatureen  like  Barbara. 

I’m  afraid  Barbara  didn’t  understand  this 
story  at  all.  She  was  only  a little  wooden 

279 


BARBARA 


doll,  and,  sure,  ’twould  be  hard  for  its  likes 
to  understand  the  heart  of  a girl.  It  was 
plain  to  her  that  she  was  cast  to  one 
side.  It’s  Niamh  Goldy-Head  would 
sleep  along  with  Brideen  now  ; it’s  Niamh 
Goldy-Head  would  sit  beside  her  at 
meal-time  ; its  Niamh  Goldy-head  would 
go  out  on  the  hill,  foot  to  foot  with 
her,  that  would  lie  with  her  among  the 
fern,  and  would  go  with  her  gathering 
daisies  and  fairy-thimbles.  It’s  Niamh 
Goldy-Head  she’d  press  to  her  breast.  It’s 
Niamh  Goldy-Head  she’d  kiss.  Some  other 
body  to  be  in  the  place  you’d  be,  some  other 
body  to  be  walking  with  the  person  you’d 
walk  with,  some  other  body  to  be  kissing 
the  mouth  you’d  long  to  kiss, — that’s  the 
greatest  pain  is  to  be  suffered  in  this  world ; 
and  that’s  the  pain  was  in  Barbara’s  heart 
now,  torturing  her  from  morning  till  night, 
and  tormenting  her  from  night  till  morning. 

I suppose  it’ll  be  said  to  me  that  it’s  not 
possible  for  these  thoughts,  or  any  other 
thoughts,  to  be  in  Barbara’s  heart,  for 
wasn’t  she  only  a wooden  toy,  without 
feeling,  without  mind,  without  understand- 
ing, without  strength  ? My  answer  to 

280 


BARBARA 


anybody  who’d  speak  like  this  to  me  would 
be  : — How  do  we  know  ? How  do  you  or  I 
know  that  dolls,  and  wooden  toys,  and  the 
tree,  and  the  hill,  and  the  river,  and  the 
waterfall,  and  the  little  blossoms  of  the 
field,  and  the  little  stones  of  the  strand 
haven’t  their  own  feeling,  and  mind,  and 
understanding,  and  guidance  ? — aye,  and  the 
hundred  other  things  we  see  about  us?  I 
don’t  say  they  have  ; but  ’twould  be  daring  for 
me  or  for  anybody  else  to  say  that  they  haven’t. 
The  children  think  they  have  ; and  it’s  my 
opinion  that  the  children  are  more  dis- 
cerning in  things  of  this  sort  than  you  or  I. 

One  day  that  Barbara  was  sitting  up 
lonesomely  by  herself  in  her  parlour,  Brideen 
and  Niamh  Goldy-Head  were  in  earnest 
conversation  by  the  fireside  ; or,  I ought  to 
say,  Brideen  was  in  earnest  conversation  with 
herself,  and  Niamh  listening  to  her  ; for 
nobody  ever  heard  a word  out  of  the  Queen’s 
mouth  but  only  “ Mam-a.”  Brideen’s  mother 
was  outside  the  door  washing.  The  father 
was  setting  potatoes  in  the  garden.  There 
only  remained  in  the  house  Brideen  and  the 
two  dolls. 

It’s  like  the  little  girl  was  tired,  for  she’d 

28  T 


BARBARA 


spent  the  morning  washing  (she’d  wash  the 
Queen’s  sheet  and  blanket  every  week).  It 
was  short  till  sleep  came  on  her.  It  was 
short,  after  that,  till  she  dropped  her  head 
on  her  breast  and  she  was  in  deep  slumber.  I 
don’t  rightly  understand  what  happened  after 
that,  but,  by  all  accounts,  Brideen  was  falling 
down  and  down,  till  she  was  stretched  on 
the  hearth-flag  within  the  nearness  of  an 
inch  to  the  fire.  She  didn’t  waken,  for 
she  was  sound  asleep.  It’s  like  that  Niamh 
Goldy-Head  was  asleep,  too,  but,  how- 
ever, or  whatever,  the  story  is,  she  didn’t 
stir.  There  wasn’t  a soul  in  the  house  to  pro- 
tect the  darling  little  child  from  the  death  that 
was  faring  on  her.  Nobody  knew  her  to  be 
in  peril,  but  only  God  and — Barbara. 

The  mother  was  working  without,  and 
she  notithinking  that  death  was  that  near  the 
child  of  her  heart.  She  was  turning  a 
tune  to  herself,  and  lifting  it  finely,  when 
she  heard  a “ plop  a sound  as  if  some- 
thing was  falling  on  the  floor. 

“ What’s  that,  now?”  says  she  to  herself. 
“ Something  that  fell  from  the  wall,  it’s  a 
chance.  It  can’t  be  that  Brideen  meddled 
with  it  ? ” 


282 


BARBARA 


In  with  her  in  a hurry.  It’s  barely  the 
life  didn’t  drop  out  of  her,  with  the  dint  of 
fright.  And  what  wonder  ? Her  darling 
child  was  stretched  on  the  hearth,  and  her 
little  coateen  blazing  in  the  fire  ! 

The  mother  rushed  to  her  across  the 
kitchen,  lifted  her  in  her  arms,  and  pulled 
the  coat  from  her.  She  only  just  saved 
her.  If  she’d  waited  another  little  half- 
moment, she  was  too  late. 

Brideen  was  awake  now,  and  her  two 
arms  about  the  neck  of  her  mother.  She 
was  trembling  with  the  dint  of  fear,  and, 
sure  enough,  crying,  though  it  isn’t  too 
well  she  understood  the  story  yet.  Her 
mother  was  “ smothering  her  with  kisses 
and  drowning  her  with  tears.” 

“ What  happened  me,  mama  ? I was 
dreaming.  I felt  hot,  and  I thought  I was 
going  up,  up  in  the  sky,  and  that  the  sun 
was  burning  me?  What  happened  me?” 
“ It’s  the  will  of  God  that  my  stoirin  wasn’t 
burnt, — not  with  the  sun,  but  with  the  fire. 
O,  Brideen,  your  mother’s  little  pet,  what 
would  I do  if  they’d  kill  you  on  me  ? 
What  would  your  father  do  ? ’Twas  God 
spoke  to  me  coming  in  that  minute  ! — I 

283 


BARBARA 


don’t  know  what  sort  of  noise  I heard?  Il 
it  weren’t  for  that,  1 mightn’t  have  come 
in  at  all.” 

She  looked  round  her.  Everything  was 
in  its  own  place  on  the  table,  and  on  the 
walls,  and  on  the  dresser, — but  stay  ! In 
front  of  the  dresser  she  took  notice  of  a 
thing  on  the  floor.  What  was  it  ? A little 
body  without  a head — a doll’s  body. 

“ Barbara  fallen  from  the  dresser  again,” 
says  the  mother.  “ My  conscience,  it’s  she 
saved  your  life  to  you,  Brideen.” 

“Not  falling  she  did  it  at  all!”  says 
the  little  girl,  “ but  it’s  how  she  saw  I was 
in  danger,  and  she  threw  a leap  from  the 
top  of  the  dresser  to  save  me.  O,  poor 
Barbara,  you  gave  your  life  for  my  sake  ! ” 

She  went  on  her  knees,  lifted  the  little 
corpse  of  the  doll,  and  kissed  it  softly  and 
fondly. 

“Mama,”  says  she,  sadly,  “since  Niamh 
Goldy-IIead  came,  I’m  afraid  I forgot  poor 
Barbara,  and  it’s  greater  the  liking  I put  in 
Niamh  Goldy-Head  than  in  her  ; and  see, 
it’s  she  was  most  true  to  me  in  the  end. 
And  she’s  dead  now  on  me,  and  I won’t  be  able 
to  speak  with  her  ever  again,  nor  to  say  to 

284 


BARBARA 


her  that  I’d  rather  her  a thousand  times, — 
aye,  a hundred  thousand  times  — than 
Niamh.” 

“ It’s  not  dead  she  is  at  all,”  says  the 
mother,  “ but  hurted.  Your  father  will 
put  the  head  on  her  again  when  he  comes  in 
“ If  I’d  fall  from  the  top  of  the  dresser, 
mama,  and  lose  my  head,  would  he  be  able 
to  put  it  on  me  again  ? ” 

“ He  wouldn’t.  But  you’re  not  the  same 
as  Barbara.” 

“ I am  the  same.  She’s  dead.  Don’t 
you  see  she’s  not  moving  or  speaking?” 

The  mother  had  to  admit  this  much. 
Nothing  would  convince  Brideen  that 
Barbara  wasn’t  killed,  and  that  it  wasn’t  to 
save  her  she  gave  her  life.  I myself  wouldn’t 
say  she  was  right,  but  I wouldn’t  say  she 
wasn’t.  I can  only  say  what  I said  before  : 
How  do  I know  ? How  do  you  know  ? 

Barbara  was  buried  that  evening  on  the 
side  of  the  hill  in  the  place  where  she  and 
Brideen  spent  those  long  days  of  summer 
among  the  fern  and  the  flowers.  There 
are  fairy-thimbles  growing  at  the  head  of 
the  grave,  and  daisies  and  buttercups  plenti- 
fully about  it. 


285 


BARBARA 


Before  going  to  sleep  that  night,  Brideen 
called  over  to  her  mother. 

“ Do  you  think,  mama,”  says  she,  “ will 
I see  Barbara  in  heaven  ? ” 

“ Maybe,  by  the  King  of  Glory,  you 
might, ” says  the  mother. 

“Do  you  think  will  I,  daddy?”  says  she 
to  her  father. 

“ I know  well  you  will,”  says  the  father. 

Those  were  the  Adventures  and  Tragic 
Fate  of  Barbara  up  to  that  time. 


286 


EOINEEN  OF  THE  BIRDS 


EOINEEN  OF  THE  BIRDS 


A conversation  that  took  place  between 
Eoineen  of  the  Birds  and  his  mother,  one 
evening  of  spring,  before  the  going  under 
of  the  sun.  The  song-thrush  and  the 
yellow-bunting  that  heard  it,  and  (as  I 
think)  told  it  to  my  friends  the  swallows. 
The  swallows  that  told  the  story  to  me. 

“ Come  on  in,  pet.  It’s  rising  cold.” 

“ I can’t  stir  a while  yet,  little  mother. 
I’m  waiting  for  the  swallows.” 

“ For  what,  little  son  ? ” 

“ The  swallows.  I’m  thinking  they’ll 
be  here  this  night.” 

Eoineen  was  high  on  the  big  rock  that 
was  close  to  the  gable  of  the  house,  he 
settled  nicely  on  top  of  it,  and  the  white 
back  of  his  head  against  the  foot  of  the 
ash-tree  that  was  sheltering  him.  He  had 
his  head  raised,  and  he  looking  from  him 
southward.  His  mother  looked  up  at  him. 
It  seemed  to  her  that  his  share  of  hair  was 
yellow  gold  where  the  sun  was  burning  on 
his  head. 


289 


u 


EOINEEN  OF  THE  BIRDS 


“ And  where  are  they  coming:  from, 

child  ? ” 

“ From  the  Southern  World — the  place 
it  does  be  summer  always.  I’m  expecting 
them  for  a week.” 

“ And  how  do  you  know  that  it’s  this 
night  they’ll  come  ?” 

“I  don’t  know,  only  thinking  it.  ’Twould 
be  time  for  them  to  be  here  some  day  now. 
I mind  that  it  was  this  day  surely  they 
came  last  year.  I was  coming  up  from  the 
well  when  I heard  their  twittering — a sweet, 
joyful  twittering  as  they’d  be  saying : 
c We’ve  come  to  you  again,  Eoineen  ! News 
to  you  from  the  Southern  World!’ — and 
then  one  of  them  flew  past  me,  rubbing  his 
wing  to  my  cheek.” 

There’s  no  need  to  say  that  this  talk  put 
great  wonder  on  the  mother.  Eoineen 
never  spoke  to  her  like  that  before.  She 
knew  that  he  put  a great  wish  in  the 
birds,  and  that  it’s  many  an  hour  he  used 
spend  in  the  wood  or  by  the  strand-side, 
“ talking  to  them,”  as  he’d  say.  But  she 
didn’t  understand  why  there  should  be  that 
great  a wish  on  him  to  see  the  swallows 
coming  again.  She  knew  by  his  face,  as 

290 


EOINEEN  OF  THE  BIRDS 


well  as  by  the  words  of  his  mouth,  that  he 
was  forever  thinking  on  some  thing  that 
was  making  him  anxious.  And  there  came 
unrest  on  the  woman  over  it,  a thing  that’s 
no  wonder.  “ Sure,  it’s  queer  talk  from 
a child,”  says  she  in  her  own  mind.  She 
didn’t  speak  a breath  aloud,  however,  but 
she  listening  to  each  word  that  came  out  of 
his  mouth. 

“ I’m  very  lonely  since  they  left  me  in 
the  harvest,”  says  the  little  boy  again,  like 
one  that  would  be  talking  to  himself. 
“ They  had  that  much  to  say  to  me. 
They’re  not  the  same  as  the  song-thrush 
or  the  yellow-bunting  that  do  spend  the 
best  part  of  their  lives  by  the  ditch-side  in 
the  garden.  They  do  have  wonderful 
stories  to  tell  about  the  lands  where  it  does 
be  summer  always,  and  about  the  wild  seas 
where  the  ships  are  drowned,  and  about  the 
lime-bright  cities  where  the  kings  do  be 
always  living.  It’s  long,  long  the  road 
from  the  Southern  World  to  this  country. 
They  see  everything  coming  over,  and  they 
don’t  forget  anything.  I think  long,  want- 
ing them.” 

“ Come  in,  white  love,  and  go  to  sleep. 

291 


EOINEEN  OF  THE  BIRDS 


You’ll  be  perished  with  the  cold  if  you  stay 
out  any  longer.” 

“ I’ll  go  in  presently,  little  mother.  I 
wouldn’t  like  them  to  come,  and  I not  to 
be  here  to  give  them  welcome.  They 
would  be  wondering.” 

The  mother  saw  that  it  was  no  good 
to  be  at  him.  She  went  in,  troubled. 
She  cleaned  the  table  and  the  chairs.  She 
washed  the  vessels  and  the  dishes.  She 
took  the  brush,  and  she  brushed  the  floor. 
She  scoured  the  kettle  and  the  big  pot.  She 
trimmed  the  lamp,  and  hung  it  on  the 
wall.  She  put  more  turf  on  the  fire.  She 
did  a hundred  other  things  that  she  needn’t 
have  done.  Then  she  sat  before  the  fire, 
thinking  to  herself. 

The  “piper  of  the  ashes”  (the  cricket) 
came  out,  and  started  on  his  heartsome 
tune.  The  mother  stayed  by  the  hearth- 
side,  pondering.  The  little  boy  stayed  on 
his  airy  seat,  watching.  The  cows  came 
home  from  the  pasture.  The  hen  called 
to  her  her  chickens.  The  blackbird  and 
the  wren,  and  the  other  little  people  of 
the  wood  went  to  sleep.  The  buzzing  of  the 
flies  was  stopped,  and  the  bleating  of  the 

292 


EOINEEN  OF  THE  BIRDS 


lambs.  The  sun  sank  slowly  till  it  was  close 
to  the  bottom  of  the  sky,  till  it  was 
exactly  on  the  bottom  of  the  sky,  till  it  was 
under  the  bottom  of  the  sky.  A cold  wind 
blew  from  the  east.  The  darkness  spread 
on  the  earth.  At  last  Eoineen  came  in. 

“ I fear  they  won’t  come  this  night,” 
says  he.  “ Maybe,  with  God’s  help,  they 
might  come  to-morrow.” 


The  morning  of  the  next  day  came. 
Eoineen  was  up  early,  and  he  watching  out 
from  the  top  of  the  rock.  The  middle  of 
day  came.  The  end  of  day  came.  The 
night  came.  But,  my  grief ! the  swallows 
did  not  come. 

“ Maybe  we  might  see  them  here  to- 
morrow,” says  Eoineen,  and  he  coming  in 
sadly  that  night. 

But  they  didn’t  see  them.  Nor  did  they 
see  them  the  day  after  that,  nor  the  day 
after  that  again.  And  it’s  what  Eoineen 
would  say  every  night  and  he  coming  in  : 

“ Maybe  they  might  be  with  us  to- 
morrow.” 


293 


EOINEEN  OF  THE  BIRDS 


II 

There  came  a delightful  evening  in  the 
end  of  April.  The  air  was  clear  and  cool 
after  a shower  of  rain.  There  was  a wonder- 
ful light  in  the  western  heavens.  The  birds 
sang  a strain  of  music  in  the  wood.  The 
waves  were  chanting  a poem  on  the  strand. 
But  loneliness  was  on  the  heart  of  the  boy 
and  he  waiting  for  the  swallows. 

There  was  heard,  suddenly,  a sound  that 
hadn’t  been  heard  in  that  place  for  more 
than  a half-year.  A little,  tiny  sound.  A 
faint,  truly-melodious  sound.  A pert,  joy- 
ous twittering,  and  it  unlike  any  othei 
twittering  that  comes  from  the  mouth  of  a 
bird.  With  fiery  swiftness  a small  black 
body  drove  from  the  south.  It  flying  high 
in  the  air.  Two  broad,  strong  wings  on  it. 
The  shaping  of  a fork  on  its  tail.  It  cutting 
the  way  before  it,  like  an  arrow  shot  from  a 
bow.  It  swooped  suddenly,  it  turned,  rose 
again,  swooped  and  turned  again.  Then  it 
made  straight  for  Eoineen,  it  speaking  at 

294 


EOINEEN  OF  THE  BIRDS 


the  top  of  its  voice,  till  it  lay  and  nestled  in 
the  breast  of  the  little  boy  after  its  long 
journey  from  the  Southern  World. 

“ O,  my  love,  my  love  you  are  ! ” says 
Eoineen,  taking  it  in  his  two  hands  and 
kissing  it  on  the  little  black  head.  “ Wel- 
come to  me  from  the  strange  countries ! 
Are  you  tired  after  your  lonely  journey  over 
lands  and  over  seas?  Ora , my  thousand, 
thousand  loves  you  are,  beautiful  little 
messenger  from  the  country  where  it  does 
be  summer  always ! Where  are  your 
companions  from  you  ? Or  what  happened 
you  on  the  road,  or  why  didn’t  ye  come 
before  this  ? ” 

While  he  was  speaking  like  this  with  the 
swallow,  kissing  it  again  and  yet  again,  and 
rubbing  his  hand  lovingly  over  its  blue-black 
wings,  its  little  red  throat  and  its  bright, 
feathered  breast,  another  little  bird  sailed 
from  the  south  and  alighted  beside  them. 
The  two  birds  rose  in  the  air  then,  and  it  is 
the  first  other  place  they  lay,  in  * their  own 
little  nest  that  was  hidden  in  the  ivy  that 
was  growing  thickly  on  the  walls  of  the 
house. 

“ They  are  found  at  last,  little  mother  ! ” 

295 


EOINEEN  OF  THE  BIRDS 


says  Eoineen,  and  he  running  in  joyfully. 
“ The  swallows  are  found  at  last ! A pair 
came  this  night — the  pair  who  have  their 
nest  over  my  window.  The  others  will  be 
with  us  to-morrow. ” 

The  mother  stooped  and  drew  him  to 
her.  Then  she  put  a prayer  to  God  in  a 
whisper,  giving  thanks  to  Him  for  sending 
the  swallows  to  them.  The  flame  that  was 
in  the  eyes  of  the  boy,  it  would  put  delight 
on  the  heart  of  any  mother  at  all. 

It  was  sound  the  sleep  of  Eoineen  that 
night. 


The  swallows  came  one  after  another 
now — singly  at  first,  in  pairs  then,  and  at 
last  in  little  flocks.  Isn’t  it  they  were  glad 
when  they  saw  the  old  place  again  ! The 
little  wood  and  the  brook  running  through 
it ; the  white,  sandy  beach ; the  ash-trees 
that  were  close  to  the  house ; the  house 
itself  and  the  old  nests  exactly  as  they  left 
them  half  a year  before  that.  There  was  no 
change  on  anything  but  only  on  the  little 
boy.  He  was  quieter  and  gentler  than 
he  used  to  be.  He  was  oftener  sitting  than 

296 


EOINEEN  OF  THE  BIRDS 


running  with  himself  about  the  fields,  as 
was  his  habit  before  that.  He  wasn’t  heard 
laughing  or  singing  as  often  as  he  used  be 
heard.  If  the  swallows  took  notice  of  this 
much — and  I wouldn’t  say  they  didn’t — it’s 
certain  that  they  were  sorry  for  him. 

The  summer  went  by.  It  was  seldom 
Eoineen  would  stir  out  on  the  street,  but  he 
sitting  contentedly  on  the  top  of  the  rock, 
looking  at  the  swallows  and  listening  to  their 
twittering.  He’d  spend  the  hours  like  this. 
’Twas  often  he  was  there  from  early  morn- 
ing till  there  came  “ tratlinona  greine  buidhe ,” 
— the  evening  of  the  yellow  sun  ; and  going 
within  every  night  he’d  have  a great  lot  of 
stories,  beautiful,  wonderful  stories,  to  tell 
to  his  mother.  When  she’d  question  him 
about  these  stories,  he’d  always  say  to  her 
that  it’s  from  the  swallows  he’d  get  them. 


297 


EOINEEN  OF  THE  BIRDS 


III. 

The  priest  came  in  the  evening. 

“ How  is  Eoineen  of  the  Birds  this 
weather,  Eibhlin?”  says  he.  (The  other 
boys  had  nicknamed  him  “ Eoineen  of  the 
Birds  ” on  account  of  the  love  he  had  for 
the  birds.) 

“ Muise , Father,  he  wasn’t  as  well  for 
many  a long  day  as  he  is  since  the  summer 
came.  There’s  a blush  in  his  cheek  I 
never  saw  in  it  before.” 

The  priest  looked  sharply  at  her.  He 
had  noticed  that  blush  for  a time,  and  if  he 
did,  it  didn’t  deceive  him.  Other  people 
had  noticed  it,  too,  and  if  they  did,  it  didn’t 
deceive  them.  But  it  was  plain  it  deceived 
the  mother.  There  were  tears  in  the  priest’s 
eyes,  but  Eibhlin  was  blowing  the  fire,  and 
she  didn’t  see  them.  There  was  a stoppage 
in  his  voice  when  he  spoke  again,  but  the 
mother  didn’t  notice  it. 

“ Where’s  Eoineen  now,  Eibhlin  ? ” 

“ He’s  sitting  on  the  rock  outside,  4 talking 

298 


EOINEEN  OF  THE  BIRDS 


to  the  swallows,’  as  himself  says.  It’s 
wonderful  the  affection  he  has  for  those  • 
little  birds.  Do  you  know,  Father,  what 
he  said  to  me  the  other  day?” 

“ I don’t  know,  Eibhlin.” 

“ He  was  saving  that  it’s  short  now  till 
the  swallows  would  be  departing  from  us 
again,  and  says  he  to  me,  suddenly,  c What 
would  you  do,  little  mother,’  says  he,  ‘ if 
I’d  steal  away  from  you  with  the  swallows  ? ’ ” 

“ And  what  did  you  say,  Eibhlin  ? ” 

“ I said  to  him  to  brush  out  with  him, 
and  not  be  bothering  me.  But  I’m  think- 
ing ever  since  on  the  thing  he  said,  and  it’s 
troubling  me.  Wasn’t  it  a queer  thought 
for  him,  Father, — he  going  with  the 
swallows  ? ” 

“ It’s  many  a queer  thought  comes  into  . 
the  heart  of  a child,”  says  the  priest.  And 
he  went  out  the  door,  without  saying 
another  word. 


“ Dreaming,  as  usual,  Eoineen?” 

44  No,  Father.  I’m  talking  to  the 
swallows.” 

44  Talking  to  them  ? ” 

299 


EOINEEN  OF  THE  BIRDS 


“Aye,  Father.  We  do  be  talking 
together  always.” 

“ And  whisper.  What  do  ye  be  saying 
to  one  another  ? ” 

“ We  do  be  talking  about  the  countries  far 
away,  where  it  does  be  summer  always,  and 
about  the  wild  seas  where  the  ships  do  be 
drowned,  and  about  the  lime-bright  cities 
where  the  kings  do  be  always  living.” 

The  wonder  of  his  heart  came  on  the 
priest,  as  it  came  on  the  mother  before  that. 

“ It’s  you  do  be  discoursing  on  these 
things,  and  they  listening  to  you,  it’s  like?” 

“ No,  Father.  They,  mostly,  that  do 
be  talking,  and  I listening  to  them.” 

“And  do  you  understand  their  share  of 
talk,  Eoineen  ? ” 

“ Aye,  Father.  Don’t  you  understand 
it  r 

“ Not  too  well  I understand  it.  Make 
room  for  me  on  the  rock  there,  and  I’ll 
sit  a while  till  >you  explain  to  me  what 
they  do  be  saying.” 

Up  with  the  priest  on  the  rock,  and  he 
sat  beside  the  little  boy.  He  put  an  arm 
about  his  neck,  and  began  taking  talk  out 
of  him. 

3°° 


EOINEEN  OF  THE  BIRDS 


“ Tell  me  what  the  swallows  do  be  saying 
to  you,  Eoineen.” 

“ It’s  many  a thing  they  do  be  saying 
to  me.  It’s  many  a fine  story  they  do  tell  to 
me.  Did  you  see  that  little  bird  that  went 
past  just  now,  Father  ? ” 

“ I did.” 

“ That’s  the  cleverest  storyteller  of  them 
all.  That  one’s  nest  is  under  the  ivy  that’s 
growing  over  the  window  of  my  room. 
And  she  has  another  nest  in  the  Southern 
World — herself  and  her  mate.” 

“ Has  she,  Eoineen  ? ” 

“ Aye  — another  beautiful  little  nest 
thousands  and  thousands  of  miles  from 
this.  Isn’t  it  a queer  story,  Father? — to 
say  that  the  little  swallow  has  two  houses, 
and  we  having  one  only  ? ” 

“ It’s  queer,  indeed.  And  what  sort  is 
the  country  she  has  this  other  house  in  ? ” 

“ When  I shut  my  eyes  I see  a lonely, 
awful  country.  I see  it  now,  Father  ! A 
lonely,  terrible  country.  There’s  neither 
mountain,  nor  hill,  nor  valley  in  it,  but  it  a 
great,  level,  sandy  plain.  There’s  neither 
wood,  nor  grass,  nor  growth  in  it,  but  the 
earth  as  bare  as  the  heart  of  your  palm. 

301 


EOINEEN  OF  THE  BIRDS 


Sand  entirely.  Sand  under  your  feet.  Sand 
on  every  side  of  you.  The  sun  scorching 
over  your  head.  Without  a cloud  at  all 
to  be  seen  in  the  sky.  It  very  hot.  Here 
and  there  there’s  a little  grassy  spot,  as  it 
would  be  a little  island  in  the  middle  of  the 
sea.  A couple  of  high  trees  growing  on 
each  spot  of  them.  They  sheltered  from 
wind  and  sun.  I see  on  one  of  these  islands 
a high  cliff.  A terrible  big  cliff.  There’s 
a cleft  in  the  cliff,  and  in  the  cleft  there’s 
a little  swallow’s  nest.  That’s  the  nest  of 
my  little  swallow.” 

“ Who  told  you  this,  Eoineen  ? ” 

“ The  swallow.  She  spends  half  of  her 
life  in  that  country,  herself  and  her  mate. 
Isn’t  it  the  grand  life  they  have  on  that 
lonely  little  island  in  the  middle  of  the 
desert  ! There  does  be  neither  cold  nor 
wet  in  it,  frost  nor  snow,  but  it  summer 
always.  . . . And  after  that,  Father,  they 
don’t  forget  their  other  little  nest  here  in 
Ireland,  nor  the  wood,  nor  the  brook,  nor 
the  ash-trees,  nor  me,  nor  my  mother.  Every 
year  in  the  spring  they  hear,  as  it  would  be,  a 
whispering  in  their  ears  telling  them  that 
the  woods  are  in  leaf  in  Ireland,  and  that 

3°2 


EOINEEN  OF  THE  BIRDS 


the  sun  is  shining  on  the  bawn-fields,  and 
that  the  lambs  are  bleating,  and  I waiting 
for  them.  And  they  bid  farewell  to  their 
dwelling  in  the  strange  country,  and  they 
go  before  them,  and  they  make  neither  stop 
nor  stay  till  they  see  the  tops  of  the  ash-trees 
from  them,  and  till  they  hear  the  voice  of 
the  river  and  the  bleating  of  the  lambs.” 

The  priest  was  listening  attentively. 

“ O ! — and  isn’t  it  wonderful  the  journey 
they  do  have  from  the  Southern  World  ! 
They  leave  the  big  sandy  plain  behind  them, 
and  the  high,  bald  mountains  that  are  on 
its  border,  and  they  go  before  them  till  they 
come  to  the  great  sea.  Out  with  them 
over  the  sea,  Hying  always,  always,  without 
weariness,  without  growing  weak.  They 
see  below'  them  the  mighty-swelling  waves, 
and  the  ships  ploughing  the  ocean,  and 
the  white  sails,  and  seagulls,  and  the  ‘ black 
hags  of  the  sea  ’ (cormorants),  and  othei 
wonders  that  I couldn’t  remember.  And 
times,  there  rise  wind  and  storm,  and  they 
see  the  ships  drowning  and  the  waves  rising 
on  top  of  each  other  and  themselves,  the 
creatures,  do  be  beaten  with  the  wind,  and 
blinded  with  the  rain  and  with  the  salt  water, 

3°3 


EOINEEN  OF  THE  BIRDS 


till  they  make  out  the  land  at  last.  A 
while  to  them  then  going  before  them,  and 
they  looking  on  grassy  parks,  and  on  green- 
topped  woods,  and  on  high-headed  reeks, 
and  on  broad  lakes,  and  on  beautiful  rivers, 
and  on  fine  cities,  as  they  were  wonderful 
pictures,  and  they  looking  on  them  down 
from  them.  They  see  people  at  work. 
They  hear  cattle  lowing,  and  children 
laughing,  and  bells  ringing.  But  they  don’t 
stop,  but  forever  going  till  they  come  to 
the  brink  of  the  sea  again,  and  no  rest  to 
them  then  till  they  strike  the  country  of 
Ireland.” 

Eoineen  continued  speaking  like  this  for 
a long  time,  the  priest  listening  to  every 
word  he  said.  They  were  chatting  till  the 
darkness  fell,  and  till  the  mother  called 
Eoineen  in.  The  priest  went  home  ponder- 
ing to  himself. 


3°4 


EOINEEN  OF  THE  BIRDS 


IV 

August  and  September  went.  October 
was  half  out.  As  the  days  were  getting 
shorter,  Eoineen  was  rising  sadder.  ’Twas 
seldom  he’d  speak  to  his  mother  now,  but 
every  night  before  going  to  sleep  he’d  kiss 
her  fondly  and  tenderly,  and  he’d  say  : 

“ Call  me  early  in  the  morning,  little 
mother.  It’s  little  time  I have  now.  They’ll 
be  departing  without  much  delay.” 

A beautiful  day  brightened  in  the  middle 
of  the  month.  Early  in  the  morning, 
Eoineen  took  notice  that  the  swallows  were 
crowding  together  on  the  top  of  the  house. 
He  didn’t  stir  from  his  seat  the  length  of 
that  day.  Coming  in  in  the  evening,  says 
he  to  his  mother  : 

“They’ll  be  departing  to-morrow.” 

“ How  do  you  know,  white  love?  ” 

“ They  told  me  to-day.  . . . Little 

mother,”  says  he  again,  after  a spell  of  silence. 
“ What  is  it,  little  child  ? ” 

“ I can’t  stay  here  when  they’re  gone.  I 

3°5  x 


EOINEEN  OF  THE  BIRDS 


must  go  along  with  them.  ...  to  the 
country  where  it  does  be  summer  always. 
You  wouldn’t  be  lonely  if  I’d  go  ? ” 

“ O ! treasure,  my  thousand  treasures, 
don’t  speak  to  me  like  that  ! ” says  the 
mother,  taking  him  and  squeezing  him  to 
her  heart.  “You’re  not  to  be  stolen  from 
me  ! Sure,  you  wouldn’t  leave  your  little 
mother,  and  go  after  the  swallows?” 

Eoineen  didn’t  say  a word,  but  to  kiss  her 
again  and  again. 

Another  day  brightened.  The  little,  wee 
boy  was  up  early.  From  the  start  of  day 
hundreds  of  swallows  were  gathered  together 
on  the  ridge  of  the  house.  From  time  to 
time  one  or  two  of  them  would  go  off  and 
they’d  return  again,  as  if  they’d  be  consider- 
ing the  weather.  At  last  a pair  went  off 
and  they  didn’t  return.  Another  pair  went 
off.  The  third  pair  went.  They  were 
going  one  after  another  then,  till  there  didn’t 
remain  but  one  little  flock  only  on  the  horn 
of  the  house.  The  pair  that  came  first  on 
yon  evening  of  spring  six  months  before  that 
were  in  this  little  flock.  It’s  like  they  were 
loath  to  leave  the  place. 

3°6 


EOINEEN  OF  THE  BIRDS 


Eoineen  was  watching  them  from  the 
rock.  His  mother  was  standing  beside  him. 

The  little  flock  of  birds  rose  in  the  air, 
and  they  faced  the  Southern  World.  Going 
over  the  top  of  the  wood  a pair  turned 
back, — the  pair  whose  nest  was  over  the 
window.  Down  with  them  from  the  sky, 
making  on  Eoineen.  Over  with  them  then, 
they  flying  close  to  the  ground.  Their 
wings  rubbed  a cheek  of  the  little  boy,  and 
they  sweeping  past  him.  Up  with  them  in 
the  air  again,  they  speaking  sorrowfully, 
and  off  for  ever  with  them  after  the  other 
crowd. 

“ Mother,”  says  Eoineen,  “ they’re  calling 
me.  c Come  to  the  country  where  the  sun 
does  be  shining  always, — come,  Eoineen, 
over  the  wild  seas  to  the  Country  of  Light, 
^ come,  Eoineen  of  the  Birds!’  I can’t 
cny  them.  A blessing  with  you,  little 
mother, — my  thousand,  thousand  blessings 
to  you,  little  mother  of  my  heart.  I’m 
going  from  you  . . . over  the  wild 

seas  ...  to  the  country  where  it  does 
be  summer  always.” 

He  let  his  head  back  on  his  mother’s 
shoulder  and  he  put  a sigh  out  of  him. 

3°7 


EOINEEN  OF  THE  BIRDS 


There  was  heard  the  crying  of  a woman  in 

that  lonely  place — the  crying  of  a mother 

keening  her  child.  Eoineen  was  departed 

along  with  the  swallows. 

• • • • • • 

Autumn  and  winter  went  by  and  the 
spring  was  at  hand  again.  The  woods  were 
in  leaf,  and  the  lambs  bleating,  and  the  sun 
shining  on  the  bawn-fields.  One  glorious 
evening  in  April  the  swallows  came.  There 
was  a wonderful  light  at  the  bottom  of  the 
sky  in  the  west,  as  it  was  a year  from  that 
time.  The  birds  sang  a strain  of  music  in 
the  wood.  The  waves  chanted  a poem  on 
the  strand.  But  there  was  no  little  white- 
haired  boy,  sitting  on  the  top  of  the  rock 
under  the  shadow  of  the  ash-trees.  Inside 
in  the  house  there  was  a solitary  woman, 
weeping  by  the  fire. 

“ And,  darling  little  son,”  says 

she,  “ I see  the  swallows  here  again,  but  I’ll 
never,  never  see  you  here.” 

The  swallows  heard  her,  and  they  going 
past  the  door.  I don’t  know  did  Eoineen 
hear  her,  as  he  was  thousands  of  miles  away 
in  the  country  where  it  does  be 
summer  always. 


308 


POEMS 


LULLABY  OF  A WOMAN  OF 
THE  MOUNTAIN 

Little  gold  head,  my  house’s  candle, 

You  will  guide  all  wayfarers  that  walk  this 
mountain. 

Little  soft  mouth  that  my  breast  has  known, 
Mary  will  kiss  you  as  she  passes. 

Little  round  cheek,  O smoother  than  satin, 
Jesus  will  lay  His  hand  on  you. 

Mary’s  kiss  on  my  baby’s  mouth, 

Christ’s  little  hand  on  my  darling’s  cheek  ! 

House,  be  still,  and  ye  little  grey  mice. 

Lie  close  to-night  in  your  hidden  lairs. 

Moths  on  the  window,  fold  your  wings, 
Little  black  chafers,  silence  your  humming. 

Plover  and  curlew,  fly  not  over  my  house. 
Do  not  speak,  wild  barnacle,  passing  over 
this  mountain. 

Things  of  the  mountain  that  wake  in  the 
night-time, 

Do  not  stir  to-night  till  the  daylight 
whitens  ! 


3 1 1 


A WOMAN  OF  THE  MOUNTAIN 
KEENS  HER  SON 


Grief  on  the  death,  it  ha*  blackened  my 
heart : 

It  has  snatched  my  love  and  left  me  desolate, 

Without  friend  or  companion  under  the 
roof  of  my  house 

But  this  sorrow  in  the  midst  of  me,  and  I 
keening. 

As  I walked  the  mountain  in  the  evening 

The  birds  spoke  to  me  sorrowfully, 

The  sweet  snipe  spoke  and  the  voiceful 
curlew 

Relating  to  me  that  my  darling  was  dead. 


I called  to  you  and  your  voice  I heard  not, 
I called  again  and  I got  no  answer, 
f kissed  your  mouth,  and  O God  how  cold 
it  was  ! 

Ah,  cold  is  your  bed  in  the  lonely  churchyard. 

O green-sodded  grave  in  which  my  child  is, 
Little  narrow  grave,  since  you  are  his  bed, 

3 1 2 


A WOMAN  OF  THE  MOUNTAIN 


My  blessing  on  you,  and  thousands  of 
blessings 

On  the  green  sods  that  are  over  my  treasure. 

Grief  on  the  death,  it  cannot  be  denied, 

It  lays  low,  green  and  withered  together, — 
And  O gentle  little  son,  what  tortures  me  is 
That  your  fair  body  should  be  making  clay  ! 


O LITTLE  BIRD 

(A  sparrow  which  I found  dead  on  my  doorstep  on 
a day  of  winter.) 

O little  bird  ! 

Cold  to  me  thy  lying  on  the  flag  : 
Bird,  that  never  had  an  evil  thought, 
Pitiful  the  coming  of  death  to  thee  ! 


WHY  DO  YE  TORTURE  ME^ 


Why  are  ye  torturing  me,  O desires  of  my 
heart  ? 

Torturing  me  and  paining  me  by  day  and 
by  night  ? 

Hunting  me  as  a poor  deer  would  be  hunted 
on  a hill, 

A poor  long-wearied  deer  with  the  hound- 
pack  after  him  ? 

There’s  no  ease  to  my  paining  in  the  loneli- 
ness of  the  hills. 

But  the  cry  of  the  hunters  terrifically  to  be 
heard. 

The  cry  of  my  desires  haunting  me  without 
respite, — 

O ravening  hounds,  long  is  your  run  ! 

No  satisfying  can  come  to  my  desires  while 
I live. 

For  the  satisfaction  I desired  yesterday  is  no 
satisfaction, 

And  the  hound-pack  is  the  greedier  of  the 
satisfaction  it  has  got, — 

And  forever  I shall  not  sleep  till  I sleep  in 
the  grave. 


LITTLE  LAD  OF  THE 
TRICKS 


Little  lad  of  the  tricks, 

Full  well  I know 

That  you  have  been  in  mischief : 

Confess  your  fault  truly. 

I forgive  you,  child 
Of  the  soft  red  mouth  : 

I will  not  condemn  anyone 
For  a sin  not  understood. 

Raise  your  comely  head 
Till  I kiss  your  mouth: 

If  either  of  us  is  the  better  of  that 
I am  the  better  of  it. 

There  is  a fragrance  in  your  kiss 
That  I have  not  found  yet 
In  the  kisses  of  women 
Or  in  the  honey  of  their  bodies. 

Lad  of  the  grey  eyes, 

That  flush  in  thy  cheek 

Would  be  white  with  dread  of  me 

Could  you  read  my  secrets. 

316 


LITTLE  LAD  OF  THE  TRICKS 


He  who  has  my  secrets 
Is  not  fit  to  touch  you  : 

Is  not  that  a pitiful  thing, 
Little  lad  of  the  tricks? 


O LOVELY  HEAD 


O lovely  head  of  the  woman  that  I loved, 

In  the  middle  of  the  night  I remember  thee: 
But  reality  returns  with  the  sun’s  whitening, 
Alas,  that  the  slender  worm  gnaws  thee 
to-night. 

Beloved  voice,  that  wast  low  and  beautiful, 
Is  it  true  that  I heard  thee  in  my  slumbers  ! 
Or  is  the  knowledge  true  that  tortures  me  ? 
My  grief,  the  tomb  hath  no  sound  or  voice  ? 


LONG  TO  ME  THY 
COMING 


Long  to  me  thy  coming, 
Old  henchman  of  God, 

O friend  of  all  friends, 

To  free  me  from  my  pain. 


O syllable  on  the  wind, 

O footfall  not  heavy, 

O hand  in  the  dark, 

Your  coming  is  long  to  me. 


3*9 


A RANN  I MADE 


A rann  I made  within  my  heart 
To  the  rider,  to  the  high  king, 

A rann  I made  to  my  love, 

To  the  king  of  kings,  ancient  death. 

Brighter  to  me  than  light  of  day 
The  dark  of  thy  house,  tho*  black  clay ; 
Sweeter  to  me  than  the  music  of 
trumpets 

The  quiet  of  thy  house  and  its  eternal 
silence. 


320 


TO  A BELOVED  CHILD 


Laughing  mouth,  what  tortures  me  is 
That  thou  shalt  be  weeping  ; 

Lovely  face,  it  is  my  pity 

That  thy  brightness  shall  grow  grey. 


Noble  head,  thou  art  proud. 

But  thou  shalt  bow  with  sorrow ; 
And  it  is  a pitiful  thing  I forbode 
for  thee 

Whenever  I kiss  thee. 


321 


Y 


I HAVE  NOT  GARNERED 
GOLD 


I have  not  garnered  gold  ; 

The  fame  I found  hath  perished  ; 
In  love  I got  but  grief 
That  withered  my  life. 


Of  riches  or  of  store 
I shall  not  leave  behind  me 
(Yet  I deem  it,  O God,  sufficient) 
But  my  name  in  the  heart  of  a child. 


322 


I AM  IRELAND 


I am  Ireland  : 

I am  older  than  the  Old  Woman  of  Beare. 


Great  my  glory  : 

I that  bore  Cuchulainn  the  valiant. 


Great  my  shame  : 


I am  Ireland  : 

I am  lonelier  than  the  Old  Woman  of  Beare. 


323 


RENUNCIATION 


Naked  I saw  thee,  - 
O beauty  of  beauty, 
And  I blinded  my  eyes 
For  fear  I should  fail. 


I heard  thy  music, 

O melody  of  melody, 
And  I closed  my  ears 
For  fear  I should  falter. 


I tasted  thy  mouth, 

O sweetness  of  sweetness, 
And  I hardened  my  heart 
For  fear  of  my  slaying. 


I blinded  my  eyes, 

And  I closed  my  ears, 

I hardened  my  heart 

And  I smothered  my  desire. 


I turned  my  back 

On  the  vision  I had  shaped. 


324 


RENUNCIATION 


And  to  this  road  before  me 
I turned  my  face. 


1 have  turned  my  face 
To  this  road  before  me, 

To  the  deed  that  I see 
And  the  death  I shall  die. 


325 


THE  RANN  OF  THE  LITTLE 
PLAYMATE 


Young  Iosa  plays  with  me  every  day, 

( With  an  or 6 and  an  iaro ) 

Tig  and  Pookeen  and  Hiae-in-the-Hay, 

( With  an  or 6 and  an  iaro) 

We  race  in  the  rivers  with  otters  grey, 
We  climb  the  tall  trees  where  red  squirrels 
play. 

We  watch  the  wee  lady-bird  fly  far  away. 
( With  an  or 6 and  an  iaro  and  an  umbo  ero  !) 


326 


A SONG  FOR  MARY 
MAGDALENE 


O woman  of  the  gleaming  hair, 

(Wild  hair  that  won  men’s  gaze  to  thee) 
Weary  thou  turnest  from  the  common 
stare. 

For  the  shuiler  Christ  is  calling  thee. 

O woman  of  the  snowy  side, 

Many  a lover  hath  lain  with  thee, 

Yet  left  thee  sad  at  the  morning  tide, 
But  thy  lover  Christ  shall  comfort  thee. 

O woman  with  the  wild  thing’s  heart, 
Old  sin  hath  set  a snare  for  thee  : 

In  the  forest  ways  forspent  thou  art 
But  the  hunter  Christ  shall  pity  thee. 

O woman  spendthrift  of  thyself. 
Spendthrift  of  all  the  love  in  thee, 

Sold  unto  sin  for  little  pelf, 

The  captain  Christ  shall  ransom  thee. 

O woman  that  no  lover’s  kiss 
(Tho’  many  a kiss  was  given  thee) 

Could  slake  thy  love,  is  it  not  for  this 
The  hero  Christ  shall  die  for  thee  ? 

327 


CHRIST’S  COMING 


I have  made  my  heart  clean  to-night 
As  a woman  might  clean  her  house 
Ere  her  lover  come  to  visit  her : 

0 Lover,  pass  not  by  ! 

1 have  opened  the  door  of  my  heart 
Like  a man  that  would  make  a feast 
For  his  son’s  coming  home  from  afar : 
Lovely  Thy  coming,  O Son  ! 


328 


ON  THE  STRAND  OF 
HOWTH 


On  the  strand  of  Howth 
Breaks  a sounding  wave  ; 

A lone  sea-  gull  screams 
Above  the  bay. 

In  the  middle  of  the  meadow 
Beside  Glasnevin 
The  corncrake  speaks 
All  night  long. 

There  is  minstrelsy  of  birds 
In  Glenasmole, 

The  blackbird  and  thrush 
Chanting  music. 

There  is  shining  of  sun 
On  the  side  of  Slieverua, 

And  the  wind  blowing 
Down  over  its  brow. 

On  the  harbour  of  Dunleary 
Are  boat  and  ship 
With  sails  set 
Ploughing  the  waves. 

329 


ON  THE  STRAND  OF  HOWTH 


Here  in  Ireland, 

Am  I,  my  brother, 
And  you  far  from  me 
In  gallant  Paris, 

I beholding 
Hill  and  harbour. 

The  strand  of  Howth 
And  Slieverua’s  side. 


And  you  victorious 
In  mighty  Paris 
Of  the  limewhite  paiaces 
And  the  surging  hosts  ; 


And  what  I ask 
Of  you,  beloved, 

Far  away 

Is  to  think  at  times 


Of  the  corncrake’s  tune 
Beside  Glasnevin 
In  the  middle  of  the  meadow, 
Speaking  in  the  night ; 

33° 


ON  THE  STRAND  OF  HOWTH 


Of  the  voice  of  the  birds 
In  Glenasmole 
Happily,  with  melody, 
Chanting  music; 

Of  the  strand  of  Howth 
Whei  e a wave  breaks, 

And  the  harbour  of  Dunleary, 
Where  a ship  rocks ; 


On  the  sun  that  shines 
On  the  side  of  Slieverua, 
And  the  wind  that  blows 
Down  over  its  brow. 


331 


THE  DORD  FEINNE 

’ Se  do  bheatha , O woman  that  wast  sorrowful. 
What  grieved  us  was  thy  being  in  chains, 
Thy  beautiful  country  in  the  possession  ot 
rogues, 

And  thou  sold  to  the  Galls, 

Oro\  ’ se  do  bheatha  a bliaile , 

Orb,  ’ se  do  bheatha  a bhaile , 

Ore,  'se  do  bheatha  a bhaile , 

Now  at  summer’s  coming  ! 

Thanks  to  the  God  of  miracles  that  we  see, 
Altho’  we  live  not  a week  thereafter, 
Grainne  Mhaol  and  a thousand  heroes 

Proclaiming  the  scattering  of  theGalls  ! 
Oro , ’ se  do  bheatha  a bhaile , 

Orb , ’ se  do  bheatha  a bhaile , 

Orb , ’ se  do  bheatha  a bhaile , 

Now  at  summer’s  coming  ! 

Grainne  Mhaol  is  coming  from  over  the  sea, 
The  Fenians  of  Fal  as  a guard  about  her, 
Gaels  they,  and  neither  French  nor  Spaniard, 
And  a rout  upon  the  Galls  ! 

Orb , 'se  do  bheatha  a bhaile , 

Oro\  'se  do  bheatha  a bhaile , 

Or<?,  'se  do  bheatha  a bhaile , 

Now  at  summer’s  coming  ! 

332 


THE  MOTHER 


I do  not  grudge  them  : Lord,  I do  not  grudge 
My  two  strong  sons  that  I have  seen  go  out 
To  break  their  strength  and  die,  they  and 
a few, 

In  bloody  protest  for  a glorious  thing, 

They  shall  be  spoken  of  among  their  people, 
The  generations  shall  remember  them, 

And  call  them  blessed  ; 

But  I will  speak  their  names  to  my  own  heart 
In  the  long  nights ; 

The  little  names  that  were  familiar  once 
Round  my  dead  hearth. 

Lord,  thou  art  hard  on  mothers : 

We  suffer  in  their  coming  and  their  going  ; 
And  tho’  I grudge  them  not,  I weary,  weary 
Of  the  long  sorrow — And  yet  I have  my  joy  : 
My  sons  were  faithful,  and  they  fought. 


333 


THE  FOOL 


Since  the  wise  men  have  not  spoken,  I speak 
that  am  only  a fool  ; 

A fool  that  hath  loved  his  folly, 

Yea,  more  than  the  wise  men  their  books  or 
their  counting  houses,  or  their  quiet 
homes, 

Or  their  fame  in  men’s  mouths  ; 

A fool  that  in  all  his  days  hath  done  never 
a prudent  thing, 

Never  hath  counted  the  cost,  nor  recked  if 
another  reaped 

The  fruit  of  his  mighty  sowing,  content 
to  scatter  the  seed  ; 

A fool  that  is  unrepentant,  and  that  soon  at 
the  end  of  all 

Shall  laugh  in  his  lonely  heart  as  the  ripe 
ears  fall  to  the  reaping-hooks 

And  the  poor  are  filled  that  were  empty, 

Tho’  he  go  hungry. 


I have  squandered  the  splendid  years  that 
the  Lord  God  gave  to  my  youth 
In  attempting  impossible  things,  deeming 
them  alone  worth  the  toil. 

334 


THE  FOOL 


Was  it  folly  or  grace  ? Not  men  shall 
iudge  me,  but  God. 

1 have  squandered  the  splendid  years : 

Lord,  if  I had  the  years  1 would  squander 
them  over  again, 

Aye,  fling  them  from  me  ! 

For  this  I have  heard  in  my  heart,  that  a 
man  shall  scatter,  not  hoard, 

Shall  do  the  deed  of  to-day,  nor  take  thought 
of  to-morrow’s  teen, 

Shall  not  bargain  or  huxter  with  God  ; or 
was  it  a jest  of  Christ’s 
And  is  this  my  sin  before  men,  to  have 
taken  Him  at  His  word  ? 

The  lawyers  have  sat  in  council,  the  men 
with  the  keen,  long  faces, 

And  said,  “ This  man  is  a fool,”  and  others 
have  said,  “ He  blasphemeth 
And  the  wise  have  pitied  the  fool  that  hath 
striven  to  give  a life 

In  the  world  of  time  and  space  among  the 
bulks  of  actual  things, 

To  a dream  that  was  dreamed  in  the  heart, 
and  that  only  the  heart  could  hold. 

335 


THE  FOOL 


O wise  men,  riddle  me  this : what  if  the 
dream  come  true  ? 

What  if  the  dream  come  true  ? and  if 
millions  unborn  shall  dwell 

In  the  house  that  I shaped  in  my  heart,  the 
noble  house  of  my  thought  ? 

Lord,  I have  staked  my  soul,  I have  staked 
the  lives  of  my  kin 

On  the  truth  of  Thy  dreadful  word.  Do 
not  remember  my  failures, 

But  remember  this  my  faith. 

And  so  I speak. 

Yea,  ere  my  hot  youth  pass,  I speak  to  my 
people  and  say  : 

Ye  shall  be  foolish  as  I ; ye  shall  scatter, 
not  save  ; 

Ye  shall  venture  your  all,  lest  ye  lose  what 
is  more  than  all  ; 

Ye  shall  call  for  a miracle,  taking  Christ  at 
H is  word. 

And  for  this  I will  answer,  O people,  answer 
here  and  hereafter, 

O people  that  I have  loved  shall  we  not 
answer  together  ? 


336 


THE  REBEL 


I am  come  of  the  seed  of  the  people,  the 
people  that  sorrow. 

That  have  no  treasure  but  hope, 

No  riches  laid  up  but  a memory 
Of  an  Ancient  glory. 

My  mother  bore  me  in  bondage,  in  bondage 
my  mother  was  born, 

I am  of  the  blood  of  serfs  ; 

The  children  with  whom  I have  played,  the 
men  and  women  with  whom  I have 
eaten, 

Have  had  masters  over  them,  have  been 
under  the  lash  of  masters. 

And,  though  gentle,  have  served  churls  ; 
The  hands  that  have  touched  mine,  the  dear 
hands  whose  touch  is  familiar  to  me. 
Have  worn  shameful  manacles,  have  been 
bitten  at  the  wrist  by  manacles, 

Have  grown  hard  with  the  manacles  and  the 
task-work  of  strangers, 

I am  flesh  of  the  flesh  of  these  lowly,  I am 
bone  of  their  bone, 

I that  have  never  submitted  ; 

I that  have  a soul  greater  than  the  souls  of 
my  people’s  masters, 

337 


z 


THE  REBEL 


I that  have  vision  and  prophecy  and  the  gift 
of  fiery  speech, 

I that  have  spoken  with  God  on  the  top  of 
His  holy  hill. 

And  because  I am  of  the  people,  I understand 
the  people, 

I am  sorrowful  with  their  sorrow,  I am 
hungry  with  their  desire  : 

My  heart  has  been  heavy  with  the  grief  of 
mothers, 

My  eyes  have  been  wet  with  the  tears  of 
children, 

I have  yearned  with  old  wistful  men, 

And  laughed  or  cursed  with  young  men  ; 

Their  shame  is  my  shame,  and  I have 
reddened  for  it, 

Reddened  for  that  they  have  served,  they 
who  should  be  free, 

Reddened  for  that  they  have  gone  in  want, 
while  others  have  been  full, 

Reddened  for  that  they  have  walked  in  fear 
of  lawyers  and  of  their  jailors 

With  their  writs  of  summons  and  their 
handcuffs, 

Men  mean  and  cruel ! 

338 


THE  REBEL 


I could  have  borne  stripes  on  my  body 
rather  than  this  shame  of  my  people. 


And  now  I speak,  being  full  of  vision  ; 

I speak  to  my  people,  and  I speak  in  my 
people’s  name  to  the  masters  of  my  people. 
I say  to  my  people  that  they  are  holy,  that 
they  are  august,  despite  their  chains, 
That  they  are  greater  than  those  that  hold 
them,  and  stronger  and  purer, 

That  they  have  but  need  of  courage,  and  to 
call  on  the  name  of  their  God, 

God  the  unforgetting,  the  dear  God  that 
loves  the  peoples 

For  whom  He  died  naked,  suffering  shame. 
And  I say  to  my  people’s  masters  : Beware, 
Beware  of  the  thing  that  is  coming,  beware 
of  the  risen  people, 

Who  shall  take  what  ye  would  not  give. 

Did  ye  think  to  conquer  the  people, 

Or  that  Law  is  stronger  than  life  and  than 
men’s  desire  to  be  free  ? 

We  will  try  it  out  with  you,  ye  that  have 
harried  and  held, 

Ye  that  have  bullied  and  bribed,  tyrants, 
hypocrites,  liars ! 

339 


CHRISTMAS 
1 9 1 5 

O King  that  was  born 
To  set  bondsmen  free. 
In  the  coming  battle, 
Help  the  Gael  1 


THE  WAYFARER 


The  beauty  of  the  world  hath  made  me  sad, 
This  beauty  that  will  pass  ; 

Sometimes  my  heart  hath  shaken  with  great 

j°y 

To  see  a leaping  squirrel  in  a tree, 

Or  a red  lady-bird  upon  a stalk, 

Or  little  rabbits  in  a field  at  evening, 

Lit  by  a slanting  sun. 

Or  some  green  hill  where  shadows  drifted  by 
Some  quiet  hill  where  mountainy  man  hath 
sown 

And  soon  would  reap  ; near  to  the  gate  ot 
Heaven  ; 

Or  children  with  bare  feet  upon  the  sands 
Of  some  ebbed  sea,  or  playing  on  the  streets 
Of  little  towns  in  Connacht, 

Things  young  and  happy. 

And  then  my  heart  hath  told  me  : 

These  will  pass, 

Will  pass  and  change,  will  die  and  be  no 
more, 

Things  bright  and  green,  things  young  and 
happy  ; 

And  I have  gone  upon  my  way 
Sorrowful. 


34' 


APPENDIX 


APPENDIX 


THE  SINGER 

The  following  is  the  version  of  a passage  in  this  play,, 
which  was  with  the  Author’s  manuscript  : 

Colm.  Is  it  to  die  like  rats  you’d  have  us  because  the 
the  word  is  not  given  ? 

Cuimin.  Our  plans  are  not  finished.  Our  orders  are 
not  here. 

Colm.  Our  plans  will  never  be  finished.  Our  orders 
may  never  be  here. 

Cuimin.  We’ve  no  one  to  lead  us. 

Colm.  Didn’t  you  elect  me  your  captain  ? 

Cuimin.  We  did,  but  not  to  bid  us  rise  out  when  the 
whole  country  is  quiet.  We  were  to  get  the  word  from 
the  men  that  are  over  the  people.  They’ll  speak  when 
the  time  comes.  [The  door  opens  again  and  Feichin  comes  in 
with  two  or  three  others .)  Am  I speaking  lie  or  truth, 
men  ? Colm  here  wants  us  to  rise  out  before  the  word 
comes.  I say  we  must  wait  for  the  word.  What  do 
do  you  say,  Feichin,  you  that’s  got  a wiser  head  than 
these  young  fellows  ? 

Feichin.  God  forgive  me  if  I’m  wrong,  but  I say  we 
should  wait  for  our  orders. 

Cuimin.  What  do  you  say,  Diarmaid  ? 

Diarmaid.  I like  you,  Colm,  for  the  way  you  spoke 
so  well  and  bravely  ; but  I'm  slow  to  give  my  voice  to 

iii 


APPENDIX 


send  out  the  boys  of  th  s mountain — our  poor  little 
handful — to  stand  with  their  poor  little  pikes  against  the 
big  guns  of  the  Gall.  If  we  had  news  that  they  were 
rising  in  the  other  countrysides  ; but  we’ve  got  no  news. 

Colm.  Master,  you  haven’t  spoken  yet.  I’m  afraid 
to  ask  you  to  speak. 

Maoilsheachlainn.  Cuimin  is  right  when  he  says  that 
we  must  not  rise  out  until  we  get  the  word  ; but  what  do 
you  say,  neighbours,  if  the  man  that’ll  give  the  word  is 
under  the  roof  of  this  house  ? 

Diarmaid.  What  do  you  mean  ? 

Maoilsheachlainn  ( going  to  the  door  of  the  room  and 
throwing  it  open).  Let  you  rise  out,  MacDara,  and  reveal 
yourself  to  the  men  that  are  waiting  your  word  ! 

Feichin.  Has  MacDara  come  home  ? 

MacDara  comes  out  of  the  room , Maire  ni  Fhiannachta 
and  Sighle  stand  behind  him  in  the  doorway. 

Diarmaid  [starting  up).  That  is  the  man  that  stood 
among  the  people  in  the  fair  of  Uachtar  Ard  ! [He  goes 
up  to  MacDara  and  kisses  his  hand.)  I could  not  get 
near  you  yesterday,  MacDara,  the  crowds  were  so 
great.  What  was  on  me  that  I didn’t  know  you  ? 
Sure  I ought  to  have  known  that  sad,  proud  head. 
Maire,  men  and  women  yet  unborn  will  bless  the  pains 
of  your  first  childing. 

Maire  [comes  forward  and  takes  her  son’s  hand  and  kisses 
it).  Soft  hand  that  played  at  my  breast,  strong  hand  that 
will  fall  heavy  on  the  Gall,  brave  hand  that  will  break 
the  yoke  ! Men  of  the  mountain,  my  son,  MacDara, 
is  the  Singer  that  has  quickened  the  dead  years  and  the 
young  blood.  Let  the  horsemen  that  sleep  in  Aileach 
rise  up  to-day  and  follow  him  into  the  war  ! 

They  come  forward , one  by  oney  and  kiss  his  hand . 

Colm  and  Sighle  last . 

Colm.  The  Gall  have  marched  from  Clifden, 


IV 


APPENDIX 


MacDara.  I wanted  to  rise  out  to-day,  but  these  old 
men  think  it  is  not  yet  time. 

Cuimin.  We  were  waiting  for  the  word. 

MacDara.  And  must  I speak  the  word  ? Old  men, 
you  have  left  me  no  choice.  I had  hoped  that  more 
would  not  be  asked  of  me  than  to  sow  the  secret  word 
of  hope,  and  that  the  toil  of  the  reaping  would  be  for 
others.  But  I see  that  one  does  not  serve 


IOSAGAN 

Author’s  Foreword  to  losagan  agus  Sgealta  eiley  which 
is  here  translated  by  Mr.  Joseph  Campbell : 

Putting  these  stories  in  order,  it  is  no  wonder  that  my 
thoughts  are  on  the  friends  that  told  them  to  me,  and  on 
the  lonely  place  on  the  edge  of  Ireland  where  they  live. 
I see  before  my  eyes  a countryside,  hilly,  crossed  with 
glens,  full  of  rivers,  brimming  with  lakes  ; great  horns 
threatening  their  tops  on  the  verge  of  the  sky  in  the 
north-west  ; a narrow,  moaning  bay  stretching  in  from 
the  sea  on  each  side  of  a “ ross  the  “ ross  ” rising  up 
from  the  round  of  the  bay,  but  with  no  height  compared 
with  the  nigh-hand  hills  or  the  horns  far  off ; a little 
cluster  of  houses  in  each  little  glen  and  mountain  gap, 
and  a solitary  cabin  here  and  there  on  the  shoulder  of 
the  hills.  I think  I hear  the  ground-bass  of  the  water- 
falls and  rivers,  the  sweet  cry  of  the  golden  plover  and 
curlew,  and  the  low  voice  of  the  people  in  talk  by  the 
fireside.  . . . My  blessing  with  you  little  book,  to 

Rossnageeragh  and  to  them  in  it,  my  friends  ! 

It  is  from  the  “ patairidhe  beaga ,”  the  “little  soft 
young  things  ” that  Old  Matthias  used  see  making 

v 


APPENDIX 


sport  to  themselves  on  the  green  that  I heard  the  greater 
part  of  the  first  story.  They  do  be  there  always,  every 
sunny  evening  and  every  fine  Sunday  morning,  running 
and  throwing  leaps  exactly  as  they  would  be  when  Old 
Matthias  would  sit  looking  on  them.  I never  saw  Iosa- 
gan  among  them,  but  it’s  like  He  does  be  there,  for  all 
that.  Isn’t  His  wish  to  be  rejoicing  on  the  earth,  and 
isn’t  His  delight  to  be  along  with  His  Father’s  children  ? 

. . . I have  told  in  the  story  itself  the  place  and  the 

time  I heard  The  Priest.  It’s  well  I remember 
Nora’s  little  house,  and  the  kindly  little  woman  herself, 
and  the  three  children.  Paraig  is  serving  Mass  now, 
and  I hear  Taimeen  has  u Fromsi  Framsi ,”  by  heart. 

It  was  from  Brideen  herself  that  I heard  the 
adventures  of  Barbara.  One  evening  that  we  went  in 
on  Oilean  ni  Raithnighe  (the  Ferny  Island),  I and  she, 
it  was  she  told  it  to  me,  and  wc  sitting  on  the  brink  of' 
the  lake  looking  over  on  the  Big  Rock.  She  showed 
me  Barbara’s  grave  the  same  evening  after  our  coming 
home,  and  she  took  a promise  from  me  that  I’d  say  a 
prayer  for  her  friend’s  soul  every  night  of  my  life. 
Brideen  will  be  going  to  school  next  year,  and  she  will 
be  able  to  read  the  story  of  Barbara  out  of  this,  I hope 
she  will  like  it.  . . . As  for  Eoineen  of  the  Birds, 
I don’t  know  who  it  was  I heard  it  from,  unless  it  was 
from  the  swallows  themselves.  Yes,  I think  it  was  they 
told  it  to  me  one  evening  that  I was  stretched  in  the 
heather  looking  at  them  flying  here  and  there  over  Loch 
Eireamhlach.  From  what  mouth  the  swallows  heard 
the  start  of  the  story,  I don’t  know.  From  the  song- 
thrush  and  from  that  yellow-bunting  that  have  their 
nests  in  a ditch  of  the  garden,  it’s  like. 

To  you,  sweet  friends,  people  of  the  telling  of  my 
stories,  both  little  and  big,  I give  and  dedicate  this  little 
book. 


vi 


APPENDIX 


CHRONOLOGICAL  NOTE 

The  Singer  was  written  in  the  late  Autumn  of  1915. 
Joseph  Plunkett  was  profoundly  impressed  when  he 
read  it.  “If  Pearse  were  dead,”  he  said,  “this  would 
cause  a sensation. ’’  Mr.  Pearse  rather  deprecated  his 
view  that  the  play  was  entirely  a personal  revelation. 
No  Irish  MS.  is  extant.  The  two  poems  The  Rebel 
and  The  Fool  also  belong  to  the  same  period,  and  are  in 
no  sense  translations.  The  same  may  be  said  of  On 
the  Strand  of  Howth  and  The  Mother.  With  the 
exceptions  of  Song  for  Mary  Magdalene,  Rann  of 
the  Little  Playmate  (both  taken  from  The  Master), 
Christ’s  Coming,  Christmas  1915,  Dord  Feinne, 
and  the  Wayfarer  (written  in  Kilmainham  Jail,  May, 
1916),  the  remaining  Poems  are  translations  of 
Suantraide  agus  Goltraide  (1914).  These  twelve  poems, 
Dord  Feinne,  and  Christ’s  Coming,  are  the  only 
poems  in  this  volume  originally  written  in  Irish. 

The  King  was  first  produced  as  an  open  air  play 
upon  the  banks  of  the  river  which  runs  through 
the  Hermitage,  Rathfarnham,  by  the  students  of  St. 
Enda’s  College.  In  reference  to  its  subsequent  pro- 
duction at  the  Abbey  Theatre,  Dublin,  17th  May, 
1913,  Mr.  Pearse  wrote  in  An  Macao?nh , Vol.  II.,  No.  2, 
1913  : “The  play  we  decided  to  produce  along  with 
The  Post  Office,  was  my  morality  An  RIA  We 
had  enacted  it  during  the  previous  summer  with  much 
pageantry  of  horses  and  marchings,  at  a place  in  our 
grounds  where  an  old  castellated  bridge,  not  unlike  an 

vii 


APPENDIX 


entrance  to  a monastery,  is  thrown  across  a stream. 
Since  that  performance  I had  added  some  speeches  with 
the  object  of  slightly  deepening  tbe  characterization.” 
William  Pearse  played  the  Abbot’s  part. 

The  Master  was  produced  Whitsuntide,  1915, 
at  the  Irish  Theatre,  Hardwicke  Street,  Dublin,  with 
William  Pearse  as  Ciaran.  No  Irish  MS.  is  extant. 
Iosagany  the  dramatization  of  the  author’s  story  of 
the  same  name,  was  first  acted  in  Cullenswood  House, 
Rathmines,  Dublin,  in  February,  1910,  by  St.  Enda 
students.  Mr.  Pearse  writes  in  An  Macaomh,  Vol.  I., 
No.  2,  1909:  “In  Iosagdn  I have  religiously  followed 
the  phraseology  of  the  children  and  old  men  in  Iar- 
Connacht  from  whom  I have  learned  the  Irish  I speak. 
I have  put  no  word,  no  speech  into  the  mouths  of  my 
little  boys  which  the  real  little  boys  of  the  parish  I have 
in  mind — boys  whom  I know  as  well  as  I know  my 
pupils  in  S goil  Eanna — would  not  use  in  the  same 
circumstances.  I have  given  their  daily  conversation, 
anglicism,  vulgarisms  and  all  ; if  I gave  anything  else 
my  picture  would  be  a false  one.  Iosagdn  is  not  a 
play  for  ordinary  theatres  or  for  ordinary  players.  It 
requires  a certain  atmosphere  and  a certain  attitude  of 
mind  on  the  part  of  the  actors.  It  has  in  fact  been 
written  for  performance  in  a particular  place  and  by 
particular  players.  I know  that  in  that  place  and  by 
those  players  it  will  be  treated  with  the  reverence  due 
to  a prayer.” 

The  first  six  stories  here  given  are  translations  of  An 
Matair  (1916).  The  last  four  stories  are  translations 
of  Iosagdn  agus  Sgealta  eile , some  of  which  were  published 
in  An  Claideam  Soluis  in  1905-6,  re-published  a few 
years  later  in  book-form. 


viii 


D.  R. 


I 


* 


BOSTON  COLLEGE 


3 9031 


01 


37591 


8 


1232/7 


BOSTON  COLLEGE  LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  HEIGHTS 
CHESTNUT  HILL,  MASS. 

Books  may  be  kept  for  two  weeks  and  may  be 
renewed  for  the  same  period,  unless  reserved. 

Two  cents  a day  is  charged  for  each  book  kept 
overtime. 

If  you  cannot  find  what  you  want,  ask  the 
Librarian  who  will  be  glad  to  help  you. 

The  borrower  is  responsible  for  books  drawn 
on  his  card  and  for  all  fines  accruing  on  the  same. 


